Here in New Mexico, there's nothing nicer than spending a crisp fall day up in the canyons of the Pecos Wilderness. Admittedly, New Mexico is mostly a dry and desolate place. While you can't always travel north to get to moister climes, you can always travel up. When you get 9,000 to 10,000 feet up in the mountains, the humidity and the flora remind me much of my native Michigan.
Last weekend, I was up in the wilderness trying to entice some of the remaining stocked rainbows and feral browns. I parked at the trailhead and hiked a couple miles up Holy Ghost Creek, making my way up the east side of the Sangre de Cristo (Blood of Christ) mountains. These are old and worn mountains, the oldest in the Rockies. Mountains full of legend - you can smell centuries of stories with every deep breath of the clean yet heavy air.
I hiked until I knew I would be alone for the day. Upstream to where the fish are willing to rise to even a poorly tied House & Lot. Up to where the only voices you hear are those of the Steller's Jays and Northern Shrikes. As it turned out though, this was not to be a peaceful day...
I was roll casting my fly into the boulder strewn pocket water and had reached that state of deep concentration that I strive for when on these mountain excursions. That hypnotic state where everything becomes a blur except the task at hand. Holy Ghost Creek occupies a steep canyon where it is rather easy to lose yourself and leave the outside world behind. To me, this is what flyfishing is all about.
At first the sound was rather faint. It emanated from far upstream, and I don't even know how long it was audible before it pulled me out of my mesmerized state. It was kind of a combination between the sound of a train whistle and the wind. Kind of a drawn out howl, but at a fairly high pitch. Not being the superstitious type, I assumed it the just the wind moving through the Aspens and Ponderosas. But it kept getting louder...and closer...
Louder...and closer. Soon it was deafening. My graphite rod reverberated from the intensity of the sound. I was paralyzed - my ears ringing, I was staring upstream - waiting to see what could be creating such a horrible noise. Waiting for something to appear from around the upstream bend.
WHAM!!!
I was grabbed from behind, under the arms, my body lifted up from the stream bank. I landed about ten feet up the bank. I was flat on my back, still only semi-conscious as the sound screamed past me with nothing visible attached to it, and then faded downstream.
It became quiet once again.
"I just saved your behind" the mysterious voice said. A quivering, older voice, one that was obviously Hispanic. I turned and looked. There stood an very old man. You could see the years etched into his face. You could see it in the tattered wool pants and the ragged black sportscoat that covered his thin withering frame.
"I just saved your life" he repeated, pulling me out of my stupor.
"W-W-What are you talking about?" I stammered. "Did you just yank me out of the creek?"
"La Llorona" he said.
"What are you talking about?"
"Have you not heard of the Seņora of the River?" he queried.
I sat there on the bank, entirely puzzled. "I have no idea what you are talking about."
"Many years ago," he started "on this very stream there lived a seņora who suffered a terrible loss. One summer's day, her children, they were all playing down by the rio. A strong storm was working up on the ridge, but it was still very sunny down on this side of the Sangre's. A strong unexpected flash flood came down this very rio, and swept all her niņos away."
"Oh my!" I gasped.
He continued. "The seņora, she loved those children - they were her reason for living, and without them she could not go on. She made her way up to that mesa over there, and threw herself to her death. Now she haunts the creeks of the Sangre de Cristo mountains. Always screaming, ever searching for her lost children, and sweeping away anything or anyone that is in her path. She nearly got you, amigo!"
"You're k-k-kidding me, right?" I asked.
"About such powerful things I would not lie" he said. "Adios amigo, and take more care when you venture into these mountains."
WHAM!!!
The small brown smashed my fly, pulling me out of my dreamlike state. I looked around and was all alone. "Wow, that was one crazy daydream!" I mumbled to myself. Not even paying attention, the trout was gone by the time I took up the slack in my line. I looked at my watch - somehow I had been fishing for two hours, but don't remember any of it.
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This is an old folk legend of Northern New Mexico. It
is a story told to children here to keep them from
playing in the arroyos. Normally dry, these washes
can quickly be overrun by flash floods, especially
during the summer monsoon season.
