Taos to Albuquerque

Leaving the adequate Budget Host motel,

downtown Taos looked much better in the morning.  I had coffee in the square with only a couple of people sweeping leaves from the sidewalks.  Taos is a very old town: the area and nearby pueblo (village) inhabited by inhabited by Indians for more than 1000 years, Spanish first came through in 1540, started to settle in the early 1600s.  Feels like the most multicultural town I've seen, and healthy for it.  It feels like a place apart from the US.

Many, many houses have one or more adobe ovens outside, and they look like they get used.

 I drove north a few miles from downtown toward Taos Pueblo,

 The pueblo was closed to visitors for religious observances (Nov 1, it figures) so I decided to drive further north through desert country and sprawl - even cute adobe, more likely fauxdobe plastered over wood or concrete blocks - is still sprawl.

  Up a rough dirt road to the base of the mountains

 to visit an old friend who spent some time here back in the day, now is here for eternity or until the mountains move gain.

I can;t think of a writer whose life and writing (and painting and poetry) described an arc like Lawrence's - from England midlands to New Mexico to Mexico.  It was a pleasure to spend time here, and it shouldn't have happened, because the place was closed by the University in 2010.  I passed a closed sign, but the gate was open (singing Woody Guthrie again) and a very pleasant man - whose grandmother worked for Frieda back when - was so generous to show me around anyway.  Good folks everywhere.

Out of the mountains,I drove south from Taos on the scenic high road Hwy 518 then 76 through very small towns -Vadito, Penasco, Cundiyo, others -  many of the houses adobe or wood, all looking handmade, ramshackle and beautifully pleasing for it.  Very quiet and peaceful up here this day.

Unexpected apple trees and small orchards along the way

  And every town featuring artists of one kind or another.  This gallery and the basement studio run since 1968, when young people moved into the valley from the outside - by a woman from Massachusetts.

 I visited the smallest of the 19 pueblos

 What a threshing machine was doing here I couldn't say, hard to imagine there was ever enough grain in the small fields to need this.

 The pueblos that are open to public visitors - and some aren't- require permission, a permit, sometimes a guide.  There was no one around to give me permission so I left out of respect for their privacy.

  I wound down a narrow road off the already narrow highway to a most beautiful church.

Photos were not allowed inside, these are from postcards.  Not sure the difference but there you go.

On south through more dry, beautiful country to busy Santa Fe, like most Spanish towns built around a square with the governor's office  on one side and the church on the other.

The church is newer, massive.

 The old area around the square is all adobeish and all small shops selling art, jewelry, pottery, blankets, etc.  It was quiet this day but I'm sure mobbed with tourists during the season.  I'll take the small old towns in the hills any day.

Small courtyards open off the streets, part of original houses, I'm sure they would be pleasant on a warm day.

At least one sign of contemporary culture, made me smile.

My car loaded down with rugs and jewelry, I left Santa Fe driving south on crazy fast and busy I25.

  I left the interstate for a narrow road that would through several pueblos, including the large, busy, dusty Santo Domingo pueblo.  It was quite a picture, people everywhere, many women in Indian dresses, newer cars and pickup parked next to old adobe and wood houses, all bright in the high desert light.  Photos forbidden, I complied and kept driving, past small fields watered by canals fron the Rio Grande river just to the west.

Cottonwood trees were turning, leaves all golden against the blue skies.

  The road turned to gravel

and got s little sketchy

  but it went on through to the south through San Felipe pueblo, where it seemed every house had an adobe oven or two in the yard.

 High mountains to the west as I drove into the suburbs of Albuquerque

 into a pretty downtown

and to a cafe for a fine mexican dinner.  After dark I listened to a mexican band in the lovely old square then drove through a lively downtown and checked into a 1960ish motel on old Route 66, liking the feel of the city (of half a million people, no less).