In the realm of travel, nothing can approach a successful river run on good water, with the opportunity for some gamefish along the way. Okay, maybe if we could work some hunting into that river run, too. That should be next.

Browsing the magazine rack the other day – the most likely place, along with the local honky-tonk, to find me wasting my time – I spied a new outdoor magazine. At least it was new to me. River Runner featured a splashy cover, color inside, and some worthwhile information in regards to whitewater and float trips. I’m all in favor of whitewater and float trips, but what I looked for in River Runner was a fishing story. There was no fishing story, no fishing article at all. Fish weren’t even mentioned. From cover to cover, hundreds, perhaps thousands, of miles of water were covered, but as to fishing, River Runner obviously had other things on its mind.

I have this little book at home, a guide to river running in New Mexico. A moderately useful book which does say something about fishing. It says, in effect, fishing and river running don’t go well together in New Mexico because river running is done in the spring time, the water’s murky then, and so the fishing very poor. “Don’t bother,” is the message. I suspect if the author was a fisherman he would realize that the water isn’t always murky and, even when it is, you can often catch catfish till your arms ache, and catfish inhabit most any river you can run in New Mexico.

But there’s more. The “Bible” of the modern canoeist would have to be The Complete Wilderness Paddler by Davidson and Rugge. A very useful book this, a lively anecdotal ream of information full of good humor, and it is indeed complete. Except for fishing. In this, Davidson and Rugge are quite candid. They don’t know much about fishing, don’t much care, and they say so. But wanting to make their book “complete” they solicit the knowledge of a friend who does know something about fishing, and he is granted several sparse pages to tell us that fishing is a worthwhile activity when canoeing the wilderness, for which we fishermen are grateful.

And I almost bought a book this past weekend, a nationwide river running guide on display at a bookstore in Las Cruces. I didn’t buy it, because in all the hundreds of pages describing possible float trips coast to coast there was very little on the sport of fishing. In describing the Colorado River the author said bass, catfish and trout were available in places, but cautioned that the guided float trips allowed little time for fishing. On down! What is this? Granted, fishing is not for everyone. There is nothing inherently noble about the sport; it’s good if you like it and that’s about all. But statistics prove a lot of people do like it; even more people are fond of river running. I would have surmised there would be a lot of overlap amongst fishermen and river runners, but the literature on river running seems to indicate that we’re talking about two different sets of people. Myself, when I run a river, I’m gonna fish.

One spring day I put my thirteen foot canoe on the flow just below Socorro in order to run through the Bosque del Apache Wildlife Refuge in Southern New Mexico. There was a great rush of water going through and I expected excitement, catfish and some fine informal nature study on the float. There was plenty of excitement. It was a big runoff. Technically speaking, there were no rapids, but I was riding along at a speed that only a strong jog along shore could keep up with, and the sand waves would well up out of nowhere and a situation in a thirteen foot canoe became suddenly tenuous. The rise and fall was equal to anything I’d ever encountered on a windy lake. I worked my paddle hard to stay head-on to the waves, the water would slop in nonetheless, and just when I would begin to envision myself going down, the sand waves would disappear. A little bailing, or a dump-out ashore, and I was ready for the next rush. That was a good float. Lots of thrills, but nothing really to worry about. Either that or I had learned to quit worrying.

And the wildlife was there. The Bosque lines either shore, and though I was often close to roads or dwellings, my seclusion was secured by a jungle of cottonwoods, willow, alders and salt cedar. Mule Deer peered at me through the leaves at several places along the route. The dark cormorants, looking like a vague cross between a heron and a loon, stood watchful and at home on snags over the river. A coyote put on a wonderful display, lilting over a mud flat at full gallop, kicking up an ongoing and disparate spray with every foot down and glancing over his shoulder at a canoeist as he ran. But I caught no fish.

I picked my campsite for the night specifically for the backwash pool nearby that said “catfish.” I felt a channel cat was likely there and a flathead a real possibility. I had beef liver for bait, which is certainly more likely to entice a channel cat than a flathead, and I got a chunk of it on the bottom of that muddy pool hooked on the end of an eighteen inch sliding sinker. It was proper rigging, I thought, and a likely pool. During the night I was awakened as the rod bent down from a strong pull before the drag released the pressure. I rolled out of the bag and grabbed it and set the hook and after one more short, strong run the hook pulled out. It was a good fish, probably a catfish. But it was gone, gone, and that was all for the night.

The next day I floated on down through mellower water, gliding past the big, blackrock lava mountain to the take-out near San Marcial. A guy fishing by the railroad bridge there had a large channel cat caught, about the size of the one I had in my mind’s eye from the night before. He said his weighed twelve pounds. I don’t think he was exaggerating. In spite of his trophy, this local fisherman said this stretch of the river was not the best. It seems the Bureau of Reclamation “de-waters,” to use the parlance, this stretch of the river each year, putting the entire flow in the irrigation ditches. The river itself – the BOR calls it the “floodway” – dries up and the fish die in great gatherings, trapped in the mud wallows. The river must therefore repopulate each spring with the run-off, the fishing coming largely from downstream, out of Elephant Butte Lake. Still, twelve pounds is a nice channel cat. I left disappointed with my fishing results, but intrigued, again, by the possibilities.

That same spring, my friend Karen and I canoed the Caballo Dam to Hatch run, a twenty mile stretch of the Rio Grande through farm lands. This too, is “de-watered” a part of each year but a fine guitar picker at the Buckhorn Saloon in Pinos Altos told me a story of someone “grabbling” a forty-seven pound flathead from out of the waters somewhere below Caballo Reservoir. Right away my blood was up. And friend Karen needed a little fresh air and some downtime. She also carried a far off hope that three days away from cigarettes in the company of someone who didn’t smoke them would cause her to kick the habit.

At the Percha Park, a state facility, we left my pickup and loaded that thirteen foot canoe at bankside. A young man with presumptions of authority kept mumbling to us something about a permit he felt we needed to be doing this. We nodded out heads, waved our paddles and shoved off. Permit my ass! There was plenty of water and with the silt filtered out by the dam it was fairly clear. I was certain hidden in the depths were a lot of forty-seven pound catfish, as well as walleyes and bass.

A Great Blue Heron lifted off ahead of us and led us downstream to our first camp, carrying my hopes for a fish killing I felt was long overdue. After supper, friend Karen helped me roll out and bait up the trotline which we presented to whatever fish might be interested in the likely piece of water we’d selected. Then we sat around the fire and I loaded up my pipe with a wonderfully aromatic blend from the only tobacconist in Silver City. Friend Karen sat on her hands, squirmed around like a nervous squirrel, then finally asked for a drag. I passed it over and she drew deeply, satisfying. Then she did it again. I thought I was going to have to get cross to get my pipe back! But I did get it back, and I finished the bowl. Later, I caught friend Karen rummaging around in my duffle. She found the pipe and tobacco; just luckily I’d planned well in bringing enough tobacco for two people.

There was good weight on the trotline in the morning. But no action. The weight was a preponderance of moss which had gathered along the cord and collected around each hook. No forty-seven pound catfish ever weighed so much! We were a good while disentangling the line and it began to look like a long way to Hatch. All day the sun shown on a good current which was swift but calm, and in spite of our proximity to modern agriculture were all manner of ducks, egrets, herons, muskrats, beavers and a school of large carp mouthing the surface as they scooped up the billowy cottonwood seeds that had landed there. I also saw many big chunks of moss float by. Each spring, it seems, the moss cuts loose in a river cleansing action, and I suppose if you were into watching moss you could say the timing was perfect. We’d hit the peak of the moss run.

Evening of second camp I left friend Karen by the campfire smoking my pipe while I waded the river, a big live tadpole I’d caught with my hands impaled on the hook as bait. I figured I could entice a nice fish before the moss got to my hook, but the moss always got there first. Within minutes the slow heavy pull of moss required me to reel in and clean my bait. Within minutes of removing all moss I felt that steady pull again. There was no escaping the green cloying stuff.

We made it to Hatch, hitched a ride back to my pickup and took the scenic route home. Friend Karen, seated on the passenger side smoking the last of my pipe tobacco, professed satisfaction with the trip; it was good downtime. Fishermen are not so easily pleased.

The Gila River in New Mexico offers a fine float trip for raft, kayak or canoe during the few weeks out of the year when there’s enough water for the float. Fishermen find Brown and Rainbow Trout, Smallmouth Bass, and Channel and Flathead Catfish at places along the flow. One who floats the Gila drifts through the land that Victorio, Mangas Coloradas, Geronimo and other Mimbres Apaches called home. Earlier, the cliff dwelling Mogollon peoples lived here. One can drift through the last great wilderness in the Southwest, the first designated wilderness nationwide. The fishing can be very good, in part because the free-flowing Gila is a viable stream, in part because the good fishing is not readily accessible.

One spring day I put my thirteen foot canoe on the Gila, and accompanied by a hound and a tom cat, rounded the bend into the wilderness. No visible sign of the ancient Mogollon people or the predacious Apache was in obvious view but my mind’s eye had tiny wizened Mogollon Indians stuffing corn into rocky crevices while balanced precariously on the high rock bluffs. And equine buccaneers stood mounted on the ridges, largely camouflaged by piñon, juniper and ponderosa pine. Certainly my imagination had a good view of those who came before, but no better I’m sure than their ghosts watching me.

In time my imagination was drawn away from historical meanderings, and my necessity became riveted on what became an endless series of Class I, II, and occasionally Class III rapids, spaced a quarter to a half mile apart by strong, even currents. And the winding, meandering stream put current and rapids up against rock walls and dirt banks, creating deep pools. You didn’t need to be any expert angler to see that this was a stream designed for game fish. With the hound and the tom cat riding up front and creating a precarious balance, I shot through numberless rapids over the next two days. On a couple of occasions, more in caution for the hound and the cat, I lined down.

On the evening of the third day I finally got around to what I’d come for all along – game fish in the wilderness. First I baited up six or seven hooks on the trotline with beef liver, tied one end to a bush, the other to a rock, and tossed the rock out halfway across a deep run. Then I snapped a small Mepps spinner on and used a lightweight spinning rod to toss it here and there into the flow, working upstream. At the lower end of a riffle I hooked a foot-long rainbow and didn’t horse him any getting him in. I let him work and he worked good, colorful and swift in the water, before he came ashore. Later, working a pool, I hooked a stronger fish, who fought deeper, longer and just simply bent the pole more before yielding. I knew it was a Smallmouth Bass long before I got him in. This fish too, was about a foot long. About then I wouldn’t have traded places with the blessed in heaven: Deep in the nation’s first wilderness, I had just caught a fine specimen of the gamiest fish that swims out of the last free-flowing river in New Mexico. And I wasn’t working for wages.

But I wasn’t done with having it all. Next, I lofted the spinner into a deep cut under a rock wall and worked it slow and deep, jerking it like a jig. Directly the line went off upstream and I nailed him. Not so swift as the trout, but nearly as dogged as the bass, the foot-long channel cat nosed away from his tormentor until he flat wore out. I dined on fried filets of three species and marked the catfish first, the trout second, the bass third. But any one would have pleased the most discriminating connoisseur.

In the evening, the hound, the tom cat and I sat around the fire, waiting for a breakfast catfish to snag himself on the trotline. Presently, a persistent splashing told me there was one hooked; as I got up to retrieve the catch, I thought that river running is indeed great sport. And certainly there are special thrills if that river has whitewater. He who is satisfied with that and cares not for fishing is spared the many disappointments with which fickle fish and water may taunt the angler. But the fisherman on a float trip at times has rewards all his own.

No related posts.

Related posts brought to you by Yet Another Related Posts Plugin.

Separate from the crowd. Exit Interstate 25 and find yourself on New Mexico’s own Highway One, a slower, quieter route. The road hugs the topography, its narrow, low bridges and sweeping ridgetop climbs reward those taking the alternate route from Elephant Butte to Socorro.

Running parallel to Interstate 25, this remnant of the paved road between Albuquerque and Las Cruces was built in the 1930s, and has a good driving surface. It charms travelers with beautiful vistas, a leisurely pace and a trace of the Camino Real, far from the Interstate’s noise and speed.

The journey begins on I-25 heading north from Truth or Consequences, at Red Rock Exit, #100, about 15 miles north of Elephant Butte. Exit the Interstate, and then turn left to cross the freeway. A rare view of Elephant Butte Reservoir opens to the south. Turn right, note the highway sign for Highway One, and begin this leisurely adventure.

Travelers are rewarded by little traffic and a slower pace to experience the land and wildlife. Occasionally golden eagles and deer are seen along this stretch of road.

The landscape was created by water. Huge watercourses flow from the western mountains east to the Rio Grande. Usually dry, they fill with water during the rainy season, washing away more dirt to the river. The deep arroyos and canyons are why those who journeyed on the Camino Real chose to go without water for three days on a flat route to the east, rather than descend and climb these steep canyons with oxen and wooden carretas (carts).

Here, you are ringed by mountains. The Fra Cristobal Mountains are to the east, across the lake. The San Mateo Mountains rise northward; the Black Range Mountains in the Gila National Forest are to the west, with the Caballo Mountains to the south. Each day brings a different palette of colors to the mountains, sky and land.

Past the Rest Area and the Santa Fe Diner and Truck Stop, a sign marking the turn-off to Ft. Craig rests in the shadow of an electronics tower. A short dirt road leads to the ruins of Ft. Craig, established in 1854. The fort’s mission was to protect settlers and caravans from raiding Apaches and Navajos. It became one of the largest forts to aid in settling the west, and the Civil War Battle of Valverde took place north of the fort. Its adobe ruins and foundations overlook the river and the abundant pasture necessary for the cavalry’s horses.

Back on NM One, a stone monument marks the turn off to San Marcial. The monument remembers the soldiers of the Texas Regiment, who fought the Union soldiers at Ft. Craig in the Battle of Valverde.

Two miles down the dirt road, the Rio Grande is closer; many trees and the very old community of San Marcial, invisible from the freeway, can be seen. The residents were originally squatters who moved in when the land grant owners retreated to El Paso after repeated Indian raids. The squatters somehow survived and were legally awarded their land in the early 1900s. Great floods in the 1920s and 1930s washed away much of the village and farmland, and there are only two homesites still visible. A stone torreon, used for protection from Indians, still greets travelers. A small gravesite is nearby, ringed with a white picket fence.

From Ft. Craig and San Marcial, a large mesa looms from across the river. It is the Mesa del Contadero, where the caravans of the Camino Real watered their herds after the deadly march without water across the Jornada del Muerto (Journey of Death). Atop the mesa, herdsmen counted their animals to see how many survived the journey. Ruins of sheep pens and temporary camps are found near the large black mesa that marked the end of the brutal march.

Driving Highway One again, the boundary to the Bosque del Apache, a world-renowned bird and wildlife refuge, approaches. A shallow pond contains upturned tumbleweeds looking like grass hummocks. Canada Geese and a few ducks swim in the lake. On the west side of Highway One, the Canyon Trail beckons hikers as part of the Bosque attractions. Rushes and ponds appear at the Bosque’s Visitor Center.

The Visitor Center offers hands-on activities to acquaint you with wildlife in the area. We’ve seen coyotes, foxes, turkeys, hawks, sandhill and whooping cranes as we circled the Loop Trail. Winter is the best time to see the thousands of birds that migrate here.

Traveling north, the Bosque Birdwatcher’s RV Park provides camping for bird-watchers and other travelers. Farms, ranches, old adobes with tin roofs and the railyard escort you into San Antonio. A beautiful Church sits on the west side of the highway and old family houses line the road.

The junction of Highway 360 and Highway One in San Antonio is a corner with a history. The Owl Bar and Café, famous for its green chile cheeseburgers, served the men who prepared the Trinity Site for the first test of the atomic bomb. Photos and articles decorate the walls. Across the street is the Galeria del Bosque, offering locally made pottery, paintings, wooden castles and jewelry. You’ll find books, cards and photographs of the region.

Rio Abajo Antiques, on the west side of Highway One, south of the junction, provides hours of treasure hunting. A Hopi ceremonial rattle, a children’s book featuring Roy Rogers, tin handmade electric lights rewired for someone’s remodeled adobe, branding irons, and swords are just a few of the links to the past offered here.

Still heading north, the little town of Luis Lopez strings along the road. Ranches and farms create an inhabited pastoral zone until you reach Socorro. The road crosses the freeway again, leading into town.

A glimpse of the history, wildlife, culture and beauty of Southern New Mexico is part of the journey on Highway One. Like clouds reflecting the sun’s colors, Highway One reflects the best Southern New Mexico has to offer.

No related posts.

Related posts brought to you by Yet Another Related Posts Plugin.

As I drive, twisting through mountains and leaning around curves, having turned westward at Hatchita towards Animas on N.M. 9, which then leads to Rodeo and to Portal, Arizona, I bask in the warmth of an autumn day. I am taking a one-day vacation to leisurely revisit the sites of Old West tales in the boot heel of New Mexico.

This land has been eagerly explored for God and money by the Spanish, fiercely defended as their homeland by Geronimo and his Apaches, mined for profit and greed by Anglo gold and copper seekers, and researched in earnest by biologists of various specializations.

On this sparkling day with its cloudless blue sky and brilliant sun, I approach the Playas turnoff and savor the panoramic view before me. The grayed plums and muted blues of New Mexico’s Peloncillo (pronounced “Pel-own-cee-oh”) Mountains rise solidly on the horizon line. Behind them are Arizona’s Chiricahua (“Chee-ree-cah-rah”) Mountains, mystical as they recede in the distance, their soft lavenders merging with the mist surrounding them, their peaks jutting up to 10,000 feet as they try to touch the sun.

No cloud is in sight in this “Land of Little Rain.” Mine is the only car on this two-lane road. Silence reigns, for I drive with no music playing. I prefer my own aloneness and the meditative quiet. The other-worldliness of the landscape contributes to my feelings of timelessness.

As I travel along, I smile as I see mama and papa quail with their covey of young ones following them, all hurrying beneath a barbed wire fence to hide beneath a mesquite bush. Prickly pear cacti dot the rangeland. Candles of the Lord, the yucca – New Mexico’s state flower – grace the sides of the road.

Two cows stop grazing to watch me. No one else is about. Disinterested, they return to their feeding. A black bird sits atop a yucca stalk, a lonely sentinel watching . . . what?

I continue on. I pass the Reed’s convenience store, the Animas Post Office, and Animas Public Schools where I teach, research, and write during the school week. In the ten years I’ve been here, I have come to know this land, its people, and its lore.

Taking a jog on N.M. 9 at Animas, I note the Animas Mountains to the south. There, in a box canyon in the late 1800’s, a rancher and his hands recovered horses and mules that had been stolen. They found an indication of the thieves at Indian Creek: a cow’s paunch filled with acorns that only the Apaches used as food. The rustlers had disappeared.

As I go westward to Rodeo, I am reminded of two more tales set in the Peloncillos. The first centers on the infamous Smuggler’s Trail. Beginning in Janos (in northern Mexico), this winding trail was used by outlaws to bring in bullion and Mexican dollars to exchange for merchandise in Tucson. One old-timer, Ena Mitchell, recalls tales of two ambushes of the smugglers’ pack trains. Some folks continue to believe its buried treasure is still to be found.

The second story concerns a violent and abhorrent crime. In 1889 a horse herder and ranch hand named White, known as Comanche, was found dead in Skeleton Canyon, shot in the back, with one ear and his nose cut off. He had been dead for days and his murderer was never identified, but was thought to be the Apaches.

Animas Postmistress Susan Ashley related a third tale of an unusual mailbox that demonstrates the ingenuity of the ne’er-do-wells. At her recommendation, I visited the Rodeo Post Office to pick up the documentation of this story, which was recorded by one of its former postmasters.

In the 1880s, bandits and cattle rustlers such as Curly Bill, Old Man Clanton, Dick Gray, and Bill Lang hid out in canyons and caves in some of the wildest part of the boot heel. They needed to stay in contact with others of their ilk, but could not use conventional means.

What to do?

They simply developed their own private mail system. In a canyon about eight and one-half miles southeast of Rodeo, they found the perfect mailbox: a black oak tree with a large knothole in it where messages could be left. Subsequently, the canyon was named, and is still called, “Post Office Canyon.”

No stamps were needed.

After I finish visiting Rodeo, I continue my journey in the early afternoon and drive up on the two-lane road to Portal (only a few miles away from Rodeo). I leave the desert and enter the Chiricahuas, our Southwestern Shangri-La – a mystical place of lush vegetation, innumerable birds, and an assortment of wildlife. It is obvious why this area was a sacred place to Geronimo and is a mecca to today’s tourists.

But the Chiricahuas also have tales, two of which are humorous.

As we all know, law and order was needed in the Old West, but it did take different stripes, as the occasion demanded. One story I enjoy is about “mavericking,” which I found in A Portal to Paradise, Alden Hayes’ well-researched history of the Chiricahuas and its mining communities.

As used in the late 1800’s and early 1900’s, mavericking was legal – that is, putting your own brand on unbranded, weaned cattle of unknown parentage. Unacceptable behavior was set forth. Hayes writes that if mavericking was practiced on a “sleeper running with a bunch all wearing a single brand, it was frowned on, and of coarse, putting your brand on a calf that was sucking a cow wearing another’s brand was out-and-out stealing.” Hayes refrained from stating the penalties, but they can be left to the imagination.

Hayes also tells of a special watering hole for cowboys and miners and for the passengers and drivers of the “Rocking Stage.” This stagecoach ran between Rodeo and a cordwood camp in the California Mining District that surrounded Portal and Paradise. Ed Epley saw promise in a huge sycamore with a trunk ten feet in diameter, hollowed out with rot.

Perhaps public-spirited, Epley may have simply wanted to accommodate the thirsty passersby. He placed a keg of whiskey in the hollow, nailed a board across the open front for a counter, and began selling his liquid refreshments.

Needless to say, he had low overhead and prospered.

As I rest for a bit in a small park area, I contrast the scenes of yesteryear with those of today. Now travelers from throughout the world visit this area to refresh themselves. They savor the peacefulness of the boot heel of New Mexico and the tranquility of the mountains. But a century ago, rascals, rustlers, the militia, and the Apaches stalked these parts, breaking the silence, killing, stealing, and waging war.

I listen. I hear only the twitter of birds. The rustle of leaves. The sighing of a breeze. The horses, the guns, the coaches, the pickaxes are silent.

Slowly, with the sun setting, I get into my car, go north to I-10, and then turn east to Deming and Luna County where I reside. I visualize the courageous men and women who, not so long ago, came to this hostile desert, this valley, these mountains, to live, love, work, have families.

And I say a prayer of thanksgiving for them.

No related posts.

Related posts brought to you by Yet Another Related Posts Plugin.

Museums are history lessons for those who have lived through that history and those who are too young to have experienced it. When you see how our ancestors lived it doesn’t give credence to the term “the good ole days.” It is, however, a window through which we can view the past. The Roswell Museum and Art Center provides that window in the Rogers Aston Gallery of American Indian and Western Art. That art includes clothing worn, implements, tools and other artifacts used during that era.

The art displays are ever-changing in some of the galleries of the Museum as well as permanent displays of acquisitions. One will see many and mixed styles of art, some created by the Museum’s nationally acclaimed Artist-in-Resident Program.

When you visit the Johnson Space Center in Houston and the Kennedy Space Center in Florida you will find out Robert Hutchings Goddard (1992-1945) is named the Father of Space Exploration. At RMAC there is a replica of his workshop where he began his experiments and tests in Roswell. Next door to the Museum is the Robert H. Goddard Planetarium, the largest facility of its kind in New Mexico. Space again enters the scene with the Roswell Incident of UFOs. The International UFO Museum and Research Center had more than 190,000 visitors in 1997 from all 50 states and more than 54 foreign countries since its opening in 1992. Whether you believe, or disbelieve, something did happen in this area in 1947 that has never adequately been explained.

Three other museums in Roswell offer varied displays. The Historical Center for Southeast New Mexico, in what was once the stately home of James Phelps White, built in 1910, is a reminder of turn-of-the-century life in Southeastern New Mexico. It is listed in the National Register of Historical Places. To step inside is to step back in time. The home is filled with an incredible array of antiques and artifacts. For example, on display is an Edison Amberola phonograph that plays cylinder-shaped recordings and is like the very first dictating machine I used. The Museum offers a unique look at the area’s past.

The General Douglas L. McBride Museum at the New Mexico Military Institute (NMMI) tells the story of New Mexico and NMMI in war and peace. There are exhibits of uniforms, weapons, papers and photographs from the Civil War (1861-1865); Spanish American War (1898); Punitive Expedition (1916-1918); World War I (1917-1918); World War II (1941-1945); Korean War (1950-1953); Vietnam War (1958-1975); and a current exhibit that changes periodically. In addition, there is a Hall of Fame and a Reading Room. The Museum space totals 6,000 square feet. Its mission is to tell the story of NMMI (“The West Point of the West”) from its inception in 1891 to the present.

The newest nuseum in Roswell is the Anderson Museum of Contemporary Art. Donald Anderson, himself a well-known artist, has assembled a collection of works produced by past and present Artists-in-Residence. It is an outstanding presentation of Modern Art. One whimsical display is “The Soul Service Station, an oasis for the thirsty spirit and hungry soul. Services provided: Petrol for the soul; Spirit Tune-up; Blues Flush-out; and Ol’ Tickers Charged.” All the art is a testimony to the creative, whatever form it takes.

Visit Artesia, 40 miles south of Roswell on U. S. Highway 285, to continue museum hopping. Its museum is known as The Cobblestone House and was built in 1904 and 1905, at a cost of $5,200. The heirs of the last owners offered it to Artesia to be used as a museum and it was opened March 1, 1970. Today its excellent collections attest to the community’s commitment to preserving its heritage. Depending on your age, you will see things you’ve never seen before, or things that bring back memories of another time. Adjacent to it is the Art Center, featuring exhibitions of local artists as well as works from the Museum’s permanent collection.

Heading north on U. S. Highway 285 again, you will come to State Highway 2. Turn north to Lake Arthur where you will find the State History of Education Museum. Constructed in 1906, the Lake Arthur Elementary School has been memorialized as the oldest continuously used school building in New Mexico. In 1989, it was designated the New Mexico State History of Education Museum. It houses a few artifacts but seeing the building itself is worth the trip.

Continuing north on Highway 2 to Hagerman, its museum is in a well-kept, attractive house, displaying the U. S. and State flags and a bell mounted in a brick framework. It wasn’t open to assess the interior. However, as with most museums it no doubt reflects the history of the immediate area.

A few more miles north you will again connect with U.S. Highway 285. Take it until you reach 2nd Street in Roswell, which is U. S. Highway 70/380. Proceed west about 47 miles to the junction when highway 380 leaves Highway 70 for points farther west. Lincoln is 10 miles from this point. Someone has said “The main street of Lincoln is 1,000 yards of museums.” It is almost literally true. Known as the “Heart of Billy the Kid Country” Lincoln’s postmark is “Billy the Kid Station.” As with most museums, you learn the history of an area as well as an era. It recalls the Lincoln County War in 1878. The old Murphy-Dolan store and the Tunstall store remind us of the contrast between those days and these days. To do full justice to Lincoln requires more than just a few words. “Peaceful” is the one word that describes it for me. It is the perfect place to conclude your museum hopping.

No related posts.

Related posts brought to you by Yet Another Related Posts Plugin.

One of the great outdoor joys of my life is to simply meander through the countryside. That means to hike along with no particular place in mind as my destination, and to do it in a very slow manner. I do my best meandering while hunting. A good example of what I’m talking about happened during my last elk hunt.

Rod Chandler and I decided to drop off of a high ridge and descend about a thousand feet or so into the depths of a canyon. Upon reaching the bottom, we started meandering on an old cowboy trail. Immediately we came upon a very large predator track. At first we thought that it was from a lion, but closer examination proved it to be from a very large canine. The track was more than double the size of a coyote, and we speculated whether it was made by a lost hound dog or even a wolf. (We both believe that these critters still roam the wilderness.)

Later we split up to hunt back along a mesa. I was meandering above rim rock when I came upon the ruins of a square pit house, the kind commonly made by the Mogollon Indians hundreds of years ago.

I found a lone shard of pottery with rope marks on its exterior side, and placed it on a stone, then moved on. Not fifty yards further, I found a second building site, but this one was full of dirt and covered with stones. It was about five-foot by ten-foot in size.

I rejoined Rod and took him to my find knowing that he had studied Indian cultures in college and could give me some insight into what I was looking at. There were pottery bits everywhere.

I also found another foundation, much larger than the rest. Rod explained that it was their Kiva, or meeting place. These “finds” made our day and our hunt, and they came from meandering.

The next day we abandoned our hunt for elk and made a trip to the area of Mule Creek to hunt squirrels. Again, we were meandering up a remote canyon when we came upon the remains of two buildings cut into the side of the hill. Large stones were used as walls and then mortared in place with mud. One building had a tin roof, and inside we discovered old bed springs. There was a hole in the side wall for a cook stove and another hole in the roof to accommodate a wood heater, probably a pot belly.

The remains of a spring house stood across the dry creek bed, and it held black, brackish water in its belly.

A short ways up the draw we found the evidence to tell us what this ancient camp had been. There was a deep, vertical, uncovered shaft and next to it about 20 feet away sat a huge 6×8x4-foot piece of machinery. It was a winch of some sort, and we could surmise that it had used a three-foot wide belt of canvas or leather to accomplish its task. We estimated that this hunk of machinery had to weigh four or five tons. The name of the maker, Fraser Chalmers of Chicago, could still be read, and the patent date of 1896 still showed clear.

Amazingly, the two long handles that worked the gears and wooden brake were still free and easily moved! Imagine that – and after nearly 100 years out in the elements! We could also see that this machine had been powered by a steam engine and boiler. What a work of art! I wish we could have loaded it onto the back of Rod’s pickup and taken it home. How many men and mules had broken their backs to get this behemoth up here and working?

The draw revealed many coarse chunks of golden quartz, none of which revealed any “color” to us. I did find several large pieces of white quartz which I brought home with me.

Down below the mine ruins I found a clear piece of quartz that Rod told me was “high grade”; it had a rose colored hue to it. Then in a short stand of grass, I found my most unusual find: It was the remains of a pipe made from the leg bone of a deer. It had a small half-inch bowl, and the stem was broken, probably the reason the miner threw it away.

A few years back, my son, Joey, and I were coyote calling up north a ways when we happened upon a brown boulder the size of a house. We meandered around a bit and discovered that the monster was made of obsidian, a neat looking black, glass-like stone. Soon we discovered “Apache tears” littered everywhere at its base.

I never forgot about that boulder, and last year I took my wife, Jeri, and two friends up there to look around. We not only explored that rock, but found two others of similar size. On top of all of them we found ancient drill holes used by Indians to grind grain and corn and other foods.

Meandering further we discovered more obsidian, but this was the rarer brown variety. A neat find.

Old shacks tucked up in brush-covered side draws and caves are always a treat to find while meandering. The other day I came upon a huge rock as big as a house; it was arched upward and underneath it was a cavity that went from one end to the other, very cave like. The ceiling of the opening was black from ancient campfires.

About a half mile below the rock was a spring, and at this site I found the track of a big male cougar. It was fresh. My friend Billy Lee and I will have to give this further consideration in the future. Beside the lion tracks were the tracks of a female cougar and her cub. Whether the male was with them or just happened to be drinking from the same glass is unknown to me, but it was a great find.

There have been many other finds over the years in this part of Southwest New Mexico, but they are fodder for other tales at other times. I hope you include some meanderings in your next trip afield. Who knows what awaits you.

No related posts.

Related posts brought to you by Yet Another Related Posts Plugin.

For those who like to avoid the Interstates and travel the narrower, more quiet highways, New Mexico Route 28 is a lovely, relaxing trip. Begin your trek on this highway at Old Mesilla southwest of Las Cruces. The highway is east of the Rio Grande at this point, but a few miles south it crosses the great river and you are on the west side of it.

Some of the stopping and/or shopping places aren’t even listed on a New Mexico map, but if you note the distances from Old Mesilla, you won’t miss them. It is such a lovely drive, whether you stop or shop is immaterial. Being there is the pleasure. Designated as the Oñate Trail, it is part of the route Don Juan de Oñate took into New Mexico 400 years ago.

Only six miles along the scenic route, through pecan groves and alongside chile fields, you come to Stahmann’s Pecan Paradise. With its canopy of trees, it is aptly named. Deane Stahmann first planted pecan trees in his cotton fields in the early 1930s. Today Stahmann Farms has 180,000 pecan trees on 4,000 acres, making it one of the world’s largest pecan groves. A family owned business, the farm produces between 8 to 10 million pounds of pecans annually. In addition, their store has a large selection of gift baskets, specialty foods, samples of pecans, pecan confections and fine chocolates.

As you continue south, lush farms and orchards line the highway. In addition to chiles and pecans, peppers, onions, alfalfa and corn are grown here, irrigated by water from the Rio Grande. The villages of San Miguel and La Mesa are on this highway, and the lovely rock church at San Miguel is worth reflective pause.

Seventeen and one-half miles from Old Mesilla is another must-stop. Pepper Tree Farm, known as the Pepper Lovers’ Heaven at Chamberino, has everything imaginable in chile. Their gift shop has custom gift baskets, kitchen accessories, gourmet foods, decor items, ristras, clothing, jewelry and much more. They are open seven days a week.

The oldest winery in New Mexico, La Viña Winery, is just one-half mile south of the Pepper Tree Farm, on a short expanse of dirt road to the west of the highway. It is not open seven days a week, however; just Saturday and Sunday from noon to 5 p.m. and other days by appointment. They have wine festivals in April and October. La Viña has a tasting room serving Red Zinfandels and cold Chardonnays, and a wine and gift shop also.

At Anthony, New Mexico (Anthony, Texas is a twin city) 20 miles from Old Mesilla, turn onto Greenwood Road to the east for the Nutcracker Suite. Gadsden High School is on the west just before Greenwood Road. Signs are plentiful so you won’t miss this “village” of pecan products – and you shouldn’t.

In 1928, P. L. Wood planted fifty acres of Burkett pecan trees that are now almost 100 feet tall. These trees provide a pecan with a much richer, fuller taste than other varieties. When the Pettit family became owners Buddy Pettit planted other pecan orchards and developed a pecan called Pettit’s wonder, a larger pecan with delicious meat.

Betty Pettit’s marketing, begun in the early 1970s, was the beginning of the family run business. She bagged the nuts in small sandwich bags and took them to her friends at a beauty shop as a gift item. Her business kept growing and they opened a seasonal store in Anthony. Daughter Sandra helped there and added her own homemade fudge, a very popular item. The fudge flavors themselves have magnetic appeal: amaretto chocolate pecan, pistachio pecan, egg nog pecan, pumpkin pecan, apricot vanilla pecan, vanilla cranberry pecan and more. How can one resist?

The store was closed and moved to the 200 acre farm. Now the entire operation is known as the Nutcracker Suite. Sandra and her husband Oscar Portillo own the Candy Store, and with Betty Pettit, they own the farm. The broad graveled Nutcracker Drive leads into the replica of an old western town. As you get nearer you’ll see a sign, “Please Drive Slowly. Our squirrels don’t know one nut from another.” That sets the stage for a fun time. The wooden store fronts house a Sheriff’s office, a gunsmith, an antique car collection, a candy store, gourmet coffees, homemade fudge and pecan pies. On Saturdays there is a BBQ and covered wagon rides through the pecan groves. This “village” is open Monday through Friday, 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. and Saturday 10 a.m. to 4 p.m.

The antique car collection contains a Model T truck with “Nutcracker Suite” on its door, no doubt used for delivery many years ago. You will see many old Fords and other brands of automobiles, some, appropriately, with “Eat Pecans” license plates.

When you leave this pleasant stop, you can continue south to Santa Teresa, New Mexico or El Paso, Texas. If you want to return to Las Cruces along another quiet road, cross over the Rio Grande and go north on New Mexico highway 478.

No related posts.

Related posts brought to you by Yet Another Related Posts Plugin.

Not too long ago I made a hunting trip to the desert again. I also wanted to do a little camping in the back of my pickup. The following is some of that trip.

The first night was a bit of a disappointment, mainly because I had forgotten to pack my propane cook stove in my haste to get going. I had big plans for a well planned dinner. Instead I sat under the camper shell as rain pelted my surroundings, and ate unheated, leftover steak from the previous night at home and a dry, plain bagel, all washed down with grape juice.

The next evening, after a long day’s hunt, I wearily backed the pickup down into a fairly deep, sandy, dry wash where the strong wind was not quite so bad. The wind was cold, blowing from the northwest, so I sought out a windbreak in the form of a big chaparral bush and backed the truck as close as possible to it. This particular draw was filled with chaparral, yucca, and prickly pear, and it took some doing to gather firewood to cook over.

I set my fire ring downwind from the large bush; it was made from a tire rim from a mobile home and not all that big in diameter. But it would do as long as I cut the fuel wood to lengths of eight inches or less. I managed to do so with my trusty bow saw, making sure I did not cut anything larger in diameter than three inches.

After piling the rim full of hard, dry chaparral, I fetched up the Coleman fuel and dumped a cup on. A stick match thrown on the mixture produced instant fire. Sitting back in a dilapidated lawn chair, I waited for the wood to “coal up” while I also started to cut up some fillets (produced from a wild sheep that I had taken in Texas.) I lay the meat in a teflon-coated frying pan and proceeded to open a can of sauerkraut. One thing about cooking vittles on the open fire, you develop patience and a good appetite.

So in the meantime I also filled my blue, porcelain coffee pot with water and brought it to a boil, then made a steaming cup of french vanilla-flavored coffee. A metal cup held the brew, and it helped to warm my wind blown, chilled hands while the beverage also warmed my insides.

It took about 30 minutes for the wood to become just the right coals for broiling steak then another 45 minutes to slow cook the meat and the sauerkraut.

The food was worth the wait and I savored each bite, chewing it to the fullest, washing it all down with a glass of ice cold milk.

Green olives stuffed with pimentos were my side dish. They are something I dearly cherish but seldom get. (My wife says they’re not on my diet.) But out here, who cares! Dessert consists of two fudge-covered granola bars and a coconut candy bar (if you’re going to break a diet, why not do it right!)

Afterwards I sat back and relaxed under a full moon and gazed toward the town of Columbus, about 20 miles away. As the town’s lights twinkle in the dark, I’m intrigued by the fact that Columbus appears to be a vast city under the stars instead of the tiny, border town hamlet it really is.

A falling star adds to the scene as I realize the wind has turned from a steady torrent into sporadic, strong gusts.

It just doesn’t get better than this, I say to no one but the bushes, but I wish my wife Jeri could be here to share this moment with me. But she, for the most part, is a motel and restaurant person so I can only sigh and miss her at this pristine time in the night.

I wash the dishes in steaming water from the coffeepot relishing the warmth on my still cold hands, then throw the paper plates in the fire. I then set all the dish cloths on the branches of the bush so they can air-dry overnight.

A solitary plane flies over, its engines the only noise to break the reverie except the occasional pop and crackle of the dying embers of my fire. I do not freshen the blaze, preferring instead to let it die out so I can turn in early. I stare at the coals for a long time, lost in forgotten thoughts. I wonder to myself why when there is a campfire, a person has to stare into it, mesmerized by its glow.

Off in the distance I spot the Tres Hermanes mountains, lit up by the now high moon. They seem to appear three-dimensional under the clear light and much closer than they really are. I gaze about me; there doesn’t seem to be cloud anywhere, which is a comforting thought.

Contentment and a full belly bring on an onslaught of fatigue and the attendant desire for sleep. It’s been a long day. The fire has ebbed away almost to nonexistence so I throw dirt on it using the empty sauerkraut can as my shovel.

I peer upward one last time; it is a full, clear, starry sky, a far cry from last night when the clouds rushed by, low and leaden, full of rain. Tonight the humidity is gone and I can safely sleep in this sandy draw without fear of a flash flood sweeping me away into oblivion.

Tomorrow’s dawn is a full nine hours away, just enough time for a good night’s sleep under layers and layers of old down comforters.

All of a sudden it’s midnight. It seems as if I’ve only been asleep minutes instead of three hours.

Large, loud raindrops are furiously pelting the metal roof. I gaze furtively out the window; all I see are low, dark clouds pouring forth their water in sheets.

Dagnabbit! Quickly I pull on a jacket and boots. No time for jeans. Who knows how long it’s been raining a mile or two away up in the mountains at the head of this draw. Experience has taught me that in the desert it can be clear overhead then become a raging river at the same time because of severe rain miles up canyon. I think of the party in Utah just months ago who found out this fact the hard way. Some of them never made it out.

Reluctant to crawl from my cocoon, I give a sigh and push open the door and clamor out into the rain. Lowering the tailgate, I start throwing in coolers and dry firewood from under my truck. They all land on my bed.

Quickly I gather the towels from the chaparral and the dirt where they have fallen, then throw in the now cold fire ring.

The draw is still dry except for the falling rain. I fumble for my keys with cold hands and fire up the engine, cussing the desert and its unpredictability.

Gunning the engine, I drive a quarter mile to a flat between “my” draw and another; it’s not protected here, but it’s much safer and easier on the nerves. The wind is blowing once again strong, cold and steady. Miserable now, my sleep disrupted, I unload all the gear and stow it under the truck, getting more wet in the process.

Now dirt is all over my bedding but I don’t care as I undress and crawl under the mound after again lighting my propane, one-burner heater. In seconds I’m fast asleep.

The next morning the sun is shining brightly although the mountains to the north are shrouded in thick, gray clouds. What a little breeze there is, even slightly warm and somewhat soothing. It’s gonna be a good day in the desert.

No related posts.

Related posts brought to you by Yet Another Related Posts Plugin.

I have been hearing about Rockhound State Park near Deming, New Mexico for nearly nine years now, but I never seemed to get the opportunity to go down and see it in person.

My wife Jeri and I both love to look for unusual rocks and stones. We have specimens all over the place, inside and out.

On a warm, sunny day a short while ago, we decided to take the short trip down to the Floridas and explore the park and its surroundings.

As soon as we arrived, we checked out the park exhibit room to see just what the heck we were supposed to be looking for. The raw product looked very different from the finished one, and it helped to see the rocks on display.

Then we inspected a plaque outside which had specimens of semi- precious gem stones. That really got us going. We discovered this area has opals, jasper, geodes, and something called persolite. (I may be wrong about the name of this last one.) It is a “glittery” black gem.

We do not have any real rock gathering equipment, so I made do with what I had. A 20-ounce claw hammer would crack rocks and suffice as a pick. We also carried a one-gallon plastic jug. I cut a four-inch hole on top, opposite the handle, to make it into a container for specimens. We wore fanny packs, and I carried a camera and binoculars; the former to take photos of my attractive wife, and the latter to view the surrounding tall peaks in hopes of seeing Ibex, that illusive goat that has been transplanted hereabouts.

Off we trudged, taking the first small trail to our right. It led us up and over a saddle, out of sight of the park proper. We slowly explored around a myriad of prickly pear cactus searching for the unusual. We immediately found the glittery black stones. Onward and upward we traveled, our destination an outcropping of dark boulders. It was here that we discovered uncountable amounts of jasper, most of which appeared to be orange and orange-brown. We also gathered some pink jasper and some of a gold coloration.

There were copious amounts of the black persolite, which I was especially drawn to, much to Jeri’s puzzlement since she did not find them to be especially appealing.

We soon found out that our hammer was inadequate for the task at hand. When we tried to break particularly large rocks, the head would bounce off, sending splinters of steel and rock in every direction. We quickly discovered that the steel hammer head was taking quite a beating. It was tempered for hitting steel nail heads, not striking rocks. Evidently, they are harder than steel. My glasses also fell victim to the rock fragments and became chipped. We decided to turn our heads and swing blindly so as not to incur any more personal damage.

We really did not know what in the heck we were doing, but the object was to have fun, and we had lots of that. So we mostly settled on collecting the odd or the pretty.

In about 90 minutes or so we had a jug full, so we opted to go back down and have a picnic. Instead of utilizing one of the many clean picnic tables, we decided to sit on the tailgate where we could eat, look about, and chat casually. We dined on Jeri’s homemade potato salad, raw veggies, and thick corned beef sandwiches while we planned out next trek.

About 500 feet above us on a steep slope we spied two outcroppings of whitish-brown veins that were quite conspicuous since nothing else was that color. They drew me like a magnet.

We had to do some scramblin’ to reach the veins. It was steep and loose to boot, but accessible as long as we used caution. There were many places where others before us had dug at the bases of boulders and outcroppings. It was in one of these places that we took some greenish-tan specimens using the claws of the hammer as a pick. I have no idea what this stuff is, but it is unique to the country side, so it came along.

We climbed higher, my wife in the lead. She seemed to really be having fun crawling up and down the slopes, using the hammer claws as hand holds and for breaking up the small stones that caught her eye.

At one place we found a small cropping of geodes. We did not find any hollow ones to keep, but we did find a bunch of small, marble-like nodules. Some were striped, but most were all solid slate gray. They seemed unusual to us, so we gathered up a dozen or so of the prettier ones and put them in our jug.

Next we moved into a steep draw which had a vein of tan limestone. Right in the middle of it, on a wall about 12 feet up, was an unusual vein of bright pink limestone, at least that is what my tongue told me it was after I tasted it. Jeri insisted on getting some, so she literally crawled and pulled herself up the nearly vertical slope. I followed quickly after her, barely able to resist the urge to place my hands strategically on her bottom side and “help” her upwards. Instead I just figured that I would do the husbandly thing and break her fall if she slipped and needed a place to softly land. But she got up there, as did I, without mishap. She proceeded to use the hammer claws to break away small chunks of her “treasure”. It was a good spot to sit and admire the great view of the park grounds far below us.

Near this spot I found some more black rocks that were grainy in structure and did not have the glitter of my others. They reminded me of anthracite coal. I eagerly gathered in a fist-sized chunk along with several other small pieces.

In our explorations we did not find any opals. I guess that is because we would not have known a raw opal if it had broken loose and hit us on the head. It was our only minor disappointment since this gem is Jeri’s favorite.

On the way downslope, I stepped on a loose rock about the size of my fist. It let loose, causing me to take a nosedive down hill. Nothing got hurt except my dignity. I imagined that all the visitors were at that very instant looking upward, viewing my fall. Yeah, well.

We left the park with about 15 pounds of specimens and souvenirs, which is the limit that one is allowed to take, and drove east. I had heard that there was a little known road over the saddle which would take us out to the roads east of the mountains. The bladed road soon turned into an ungraded two track which then in turn turned into a wash with a few vehicle tracks in it. Then it turned into a scantly seen two track again which was barely a whisper of a trail, then finally back into a rocky wash. I quit here as a tall cut bank lay before my front wheels. No one had been this way in a heck of a long time, and we were four or five miles from the graded road. Not a good place to get stuck, so I reluctantly turned back, to the relief of my spouse. (She does not like four wheeling!!)

Back in the wash she spied a bright pink rock (more like a boulder) that she insisted on having. So yours truly lugged the 300-pound (actually about 75) rock back to the pickup. I will admit that it does compliment the painted trim on our house.

For myself, I found a brownish rock that had a splash of glittering green on it. A solid hit with the hammer revealed that its core was also green. It is a nifty memento of our little side excursion.

All in all, it was a good trip and a great adventure. We plan to do it again. Who knows, maybe we will even be able to find an opal or two.

Do your self a favor and take someone special down to Rockhound to explore the hills. I think you will have a pleasurable time.

No related posts.

Related posts brought to you by Yet Another Related Posts Plugin.