I am somewhat disappointed with the snow fall this morning. Only three inches, barely enough to ski on and now the wind is blowing and it is starting to drift. The weather report said seven inches in Las Vegas and Santa Fe, and a foot in Edgewood. Here I am, right in the middle and yet only three new inches. At least there is still a little snow left from the previous storm. Besides, you take the skiing when you can get it out here.
I didn’t move out here for the cross country skiing. More for the mountains - the hiking and the fly fishing. The skiing here is more back country than cross country. Hiking up into the Sangre de Cristos and earning some turns is more typical. I still like cross country skiing though, and try to get out when the opportunity arises. There are some great trails in the Jemez, Sangre de Christo, and San Juan mountains. When I get to ski right out my door though, for some reason, it seems even sweeter. I don’t have to carry all the emergency gear, food and water when home and a hot cup of tea is just a short distance away.
The wind is blowing fairly hard and it is cold by New Mexico standards. I bundle up to a level you seldom need to in these parts. Once I get going though, I know I won’t feel the cold. I click into my skis and off I go. Today I will travel across the grazing lease next to my house toward the ghost town a mile in the distance. From my house, I can see the sun beat down on the worn adobe walls of the old church that stands, roofless, as a testament to the vibrant community that once filled this valley.
My skis are not the best, but they fit the bill. They are made of hickory and I really like the way they flex. There’s a sense of accomplishment that comes with burning a fresh coat of pine tar into the bases each fall. Every year I look in the shops in Santa Fe and see the sleek new skis, and every year I tell myself I can get another season out of these. I don’t worry about hitting the occasional rock like I would with a new pair. Besides, I’m purely a recreational skier. The latest and greatest in technology will most likely have little effect on my overall enjoyment of the sport.
I glide across the pasture land. The snow is surprisingly good for what little there is. The ghost town sits on a small rise, and gets closer every time I look up. The cattle do a great job of keeping the grasses down, and three inches of snow actually gives a pretty good level of coverage. Every so often I need to negotiate a patch of rabbit brush and the occasional cholla, signs that this land has been grazed hard.
I don’t mind cutting trail. For one, the track goes where I want to go. Also, I get to ride in the tracks on the way back. In the midwest, where I was raised and learned to ski, it seems no one wants to cut trail. In fact, they often use a grooming machine to lay down tracks. Usually a snowmobile with sled behind it. Out here, you’re on your own, but there’s a sense of accomplishment that comes with laying down your own tracks.
As I get to the ghost town, the snow is drifting hard, alternating between patches that are almost bare and drifts about a foot in depth. A flock of piñon jays move overhead. I imagine that their raucous cawing is actually the cheers of the crowd as I race by. Looking to the north, the clouds have pulled away from the Santa Fe range, the mountains now gloriously showing off their new coats of pure white snow. It is certainly one of the most beautiful sights to behold. It’s hard to compare these things, but in terms of incredible grandeur, the first peek at the mountains after a winter storm rolls through has to be right up there with the rainbows that accompany the summer monsoons.
As I ski through the ghost town, I think of the people that lived here around the turn of the century. I wonder how they survived the harsh windy winters, and wonder if I would be up to the task. I think about the sense of community that must have existed. Back then, a trip to Santa Fe was most likely a two day affair. A stark contrast to the forty minutes it takes me to drive there each weekday. I’m told they farmed beans in this valley up on the Glorieta Mesa. That is until it dried up in sometime around the 1940’s.
I look back at the trail I made and notice it already filling in with drifting snow. I guess I’ll also be cutting trail on the way back today. Unlike the people who once lived here, an hour from now, there will be little or no trace that I came this way. What the drifting snow doesn’t cover of my tracks, I’m sure the sun will take care of soon enough.
