The 80 Year Itch

The start line of the Transrockies Run

17 minutes till showtime

The afternoon that I arrived in Leadville to photograph the abandoned silver mines in the boomtown of the late 1800s I noticed a van with the words Transrockies Trail Race on its sides and a row of porta-potties in front of the town gym. A trickle of jocks entered and exited as I photographed Leadville’s handsome historic district. I nosed around a bit and asked what was going on.

“The third leg of a six-day stage race will start here tomorrow morning. It starts at 8am sharp. The start line is around the corner to the left.”

I thanked her and pledged to be there to photograph the start of the race Sunday morning. As an endurance athlete of modest accomplishments in the 70s and 80s I crave the hubbub, jangled nerves and good cheer that infuse the hours before a big race. I realized that I missed it though there was never a start to any triathlon where I wasn’t so nervous that I swore I’d never do another. Just writing these words gives me a major case of the butterflies. True story.

Anyway, I was downtown searching for good cup of coffee at 6:30am. I asked another worker where I could grab a latte and a pastry and she said, “Go to Coffee on a Hill. It’s right at the start line.”

Coffee on a Hill satisfied. It was arguably the lone bastion of sophistication in all of Leadville. That unto itself is a story. I can’t count the backwaters I’ve suffered but I found a good locally owned and operated coffee emporium: an oasis in a desert of convenience store java.

Pure joy

Couples therapy

As I watched athletes arrive at the start line, I was taken by the bubbling of good cheer, by the bonhomie and beaming smiles that surrounded me. The percolating goodwill and excitement were energies I haven’t absorbed since I folded my singlet in 1987.

I missed the feeling and dared to wonder if I could do a race like the Trans-Rockies. I'm pretty sure I can handle the cardio part. It's the cranky back that wouldn't cooperate. Doing the race isn’t a compulsion by any means. More like an itch.

The number one seed checks his watch

And they're off

Camp Hale here we come

Running through Leadville's historic downtown

The Trans-Rockies field was not a sea of anorexics. Some of the hardy 360 competitors were downright portly. I’m a wraith compared to lots of those folks. Does looking like you could finish the race count for anything? I thought not. Michael Duran, a Taos friend who has completed 7 of the last 10 Leadville 100 Mile Trail Races, told me that carrying extra weight could be an advantage. He said that in the Leadville 100, as in miles, they weigh you at every check point and kick you out of the race if you’ve lost too much weigh.

These days I don’t have any poundage to give up. So, I’ll have to fatten up before I do the Trans-Rockies Race next year. I bet I’ll be the oldest competitor.

Close encounters of the first kind

Hondo Valley overlook

Ben Ainsley

I arrived at the road to the John Dunn Bridge and spotted a 1980s Winnebago campervan at the vista point above the Arroyo Hondo Valley. After photographing the bridge and the Rio Grande I drove back up the hill to get a shot of the lush valley of the Rio Hondo. I parked next to the vintage camper and walked to the overlook. Seated on a rock, cigarette in hand, an older gentleman who was younger than I gazed north toward Cebolla Mesa. When I approached the precipice, he rose, walked toward me, and said, “Take my picture. I’m getting married today.” That’s one hell of an intro.

Portrait mode.

As directed

I said yes, positioned him in front of a juniper and took a couple of shots. He projected sadness and not the joy one might expect. I told him to show me the mood befitting the day at hand. We walked back to the camper, and I photographed him there. He boasted, “I bought it for $2,200.”

Ben and van

An homage to Lenny Foster's Healing Hands series. Lousy photograph but the spirit abides.

 

Father and son

Inside the van he had built a shrine to his son who had died “many years ago.” He pointed at his photograph, lit another smoke and poured himself two fingers of whisky.

He was getting married that afternoon and Bobby Duran was going to be his best man.

“Bobby’s my best friend. Do you know him?”

I answered that I knew of  him. He used to be the mayor of Taos. I didn’t add that he operates a non-descript secondhand store today or that a friend of mine named his jackass “Bobby” after the former mayor. They were archenemies. 

I took four things from our ten-minute encounter. Or perhaps, four truths were confirmed.

One, people are desperate to tell you their stories. They cannot wait.

Two, they'll tell a complete stranger the most important thing in their life in the first two minutes.

Three, you can form a complete picture of a stranger in a few minutes. The fictionalized life story of Ben Ainsley (not his name) would write itself.

Four, be there, be interested, and listen.

It’s a minor miracle really, what you can learn and appreciate in ten short minutes.

Take note of Ben’s Jimmy Hendrick’s tee. It’s the one his son is wearing in the photograph.

 

Leadville or Bust

Unnamed mine with massive dump behind

When we drove to Bozeman a month ago, we passed through Leadville the once booming mining town between Buena Vista and Breckenridge, CO. As we neared the sputtering burg of 2,800 we saw an abandoned ranch of the west side of Highway 64 followed and then a shuttered mine. Eureka as they say. I had to return. The silver mines that flourished from 1880 to 1894 are my kind of subject. The silver boom bones of Leadville’s historic downtown were made the visit a necessity. 

The view of Leadville from the Denver City Mine

Part of the Denver City Mine Complex

The burned remains of the fire that destroyed part of the Denver City Mine. Ten miners working 300 feet below ground were trapped by the burning head frame. Workers from all the mines in Leadville quickly arrived on the scene and dropped air hoses to provide oxygen to the desperate miners. 100 rescuers used cables to pull down the simmering frame and lowered ropes to extract their trapped brethren. All ten were saved

Ore bin of the Denver City Mine

I could have used more time to see all the mines. I stayed at a hostel Tuesday night, I’d say “youth” but well. For $60 a got private room with a shared bath. The going rate for a standard chain motel was $150 plus tax. The difference more than covered an adequate filet, baker, salad and a beer at the bar at Quincy’s. That was $27.00 tip included. Who knew the tax on a restaurant meal in Colorado is 1.85%? It wasn’t good but it sure was cheap.

Once you leave downtown Leadville is a shabby mill town sitting at 10,153 feet. It claims to be the highest census designated place in the US of A. Nearby Fairplay vies for the mantle. So does Twining, NM the home of Taos Ski Valley. I’ll flip a coin and tell you my decision.

Anyway, gold was discovered in Leadville in 1859. That fizzled quickly and silver took its place in the early 1890s. It was the biggest silver camp in the world for a Nanosecond. Bolstered by a US Treasury silver purchase program that lasted till 1894 Leadville grew to 15,000, second only to Denver. When the government ended the program the price of silver plummeted to 60 cents an ounce. At that price it wasn’t worth extracting and Leadville withered. The Climax Molybdenum mine north of town, summer tourism and adventure sports keep the lights on today. The Leadville 100 trail and mountain races among many extreme sports contribute, too. In fact, the third stage of the Tran-Rockies Trail Run started in Leadville Wednesday morning at 8am. I was able to grab a latte at On a Hill Coffee which was literally at the start line. I watched 360 participants start their run to Camp Hale a mere 25 miles into the high mountains.

I admit to getting a little pre-race tingle and the slightest itch to try something like it. Relax. I may be stupid but I'm not crazy.

Talking Clouds

A big tipi under a big sky, Hondo Mesa.

Photographing northern New Mexico skies is a career path. A person could devote a long lifetime to capturing our sweeping, swirling, billowing, feathery clouds, and deep blue sky. It’s certainly been my story this year. In these parts if clouds are your muse days off are few.

Rio Grande bound, Hondo Mesa.

Crossing the Big River at the John Dunn Bridge.

Into another world, Arroyo Hondo

Otherworldly shapes, Arroyo Hondo.

The amazing sky phenomenon has been manifest of late as our monsoons started early and continue to anoint us with afternoon showers and thunderstorms.  While much of the West burns, we are blessed with stormy weather and the sweet smell of rain on the high desert. It’s one of nature’s visceral smells and another reminder that Taos may be the last best place.

These happened Saturday when I followed the clouds to Hondo Mesa and the Rio Grande. Point your car toward the most powerful part of the sky and she'll give you all you can handle.

One man's last best place

Main Street and the Hotel Baxter

Plonk

Ted as in Ted Turner's Montana Grill in the Baxter Hotel

If the measure of a town’s desirability is the number of breweries, coffee roasters, bakeries, ice creameries and bike shops Bozeman scores a 97. Halfway through our eight days there Bozeman’s status as a boomtown was clear. The place jumps. There’s new construction in every direction. But, it’s not all honey and roses as I described last week. Real locals are in a pinch and it’s not going to get better. Still, it’s a delight to stroll the two blocks from our house and find all manner of restaurants. Thai, Indian, Japanese, Italian, new American, it’s all there.

The fifteen minute queue at the wondrous Sweet Peaks Ice Cream. Did that twice. 

And speaking of breweries and brew pubs, there a dozen of those bad boys. I do crave a fresh brew from time to time. The same with the morning kind of brew; twelve of those, as well. Ice cream at Sweet Peaks caps your afternoon. A fresh baked boule or baguette at Wild Crumb will set you up for the day. Spread that baguette with sweet creamery butter and some Flathead Lake cherry jam and you’re close to heaven. We scarfed two of those beauties between Bozeman and Billings as we began our trip back to Taos. I've made the case in the past that if we move the town will have to have great bread. Durango’s Flour qualifies as does Bozeman’s Wild Crumb. A baguette from Taos’s Wild Leaven is so dry and hard it’s better used as a weapon.

As to bicycles and bike shops, Bozeman abounds with both. And folks use them for transportation. How European of them, qui? It sets my heart aflutter to see clutches of cyclists riding street cruisers through leafy middle-class neighborhoods that stretch from bustling Main Street to the Montana State University campus. Squint your eyes and it’s small town America in the forties when I was a kid.

Blackbird Kitchen

Bread from Blackbird's woodfired oven

So good and so good for you

As often happens Peggy and I adopt a restaurant. In Bozeman it was Blackbird Kitchen at the corner of Bozeman and Main. Blackbird identifies as Italian and to the extent that it has pizza, pasta, and extraordinary bread from a woodfire oven it was. The feeling was more New American. It was a cozy affair, so we found our way to the bar on two occasions and another to the counter where we could watch pizza being tossed by two young men competing for the highest twirl. The wood fired was being used for pasta dishes being baked in cast iron skillets. Pizza to our surprise was being baked in standard issue deck ovens at 900 degrees. The pies arrived pleasantly blistered and chewy. They vied for the best we’ve eaten. Stacks of impressive boules sat between the pizza bench and garde mangier. Peggy declared the bread which was served with olive oil for anointing to be the best she’s eaten. It was right up there.

Fresh baked at Wild Crumb

We tried to buy one but were told by Jonah, our able and engaging bartender, that we could come by at noon Saturday and ask the bread baker he could spare a loaf. However, he told us it was highly was unlikely. We were better off walking to the full boulangerie and patisserie, Wild Crumb, in the Brewery District. Yes, Bozeman has a Brewery District, hipsters. Jonah warned us that, “Get there early. It’s a scene.” It was. But the wait was worth it. We ate two baguettes between Bozeman and Billings Sunday morning.

Did I mention that we were two doors from Ghost Town Coffee where I could grab a cup before or after my morning run? Didn’t think so. I dream of living in a village where you can walk to everything that matters in life; coffee, a fresh baguette, the morning paper, garden fresh produce, fine wines and fresh draft beer. It’s been dream for eons.

The Hamill Building

The Bozeman Public Library

Bozeman’s architecture grabbed me in the late 90s. It feels important almost stately. It has the bones of a real city. It rose near the turn of the 20^th century and is seasoned by a touch of Art Deco from the 20s and 30s. Bozeman’s architecturally designed 53,000 square foot library on a manicured 14.3 acre campus would befit Santa Monica or Palo Alto. 

The city has doubled in size since I fell for it in 2000.

And there’s the rub. After all the bouquets I’ve thrown at Bozeman we wouldn’t want to live there. We almost kissed the New Mexico tierra when we got back a week ago. The skies were clearer. We could actually see the mountains. The vistas are wider. We could see forever. The politics are bluer.

An acquaintance who once lived in Bozeman called it “the last best place” back in the 90s. It may well have been. The same might have been said of Sedona in the 80s before it choked with traffic and became Orange County. The list of places that once were last best places is long. But for our money Taos with all its blemishes is the last best place.

As seen from Casa Immel

As we had breakfast on our patio last Tuesday morning we gazed across our pasture to the clouds above the Sangre de Cristos. We were home.

A tale of two stories

I visited Bozeman twenty years ago. I had hired a fly fishing guide in West Yellowstone, 85 miles away. And since I landed in Bozeman I stayed over, had a delightful meal at the bar in a restaurant whose name I don’t remember. But the barkeep was from Boston like me.

Strolling Main Street I was taken by the bones of Bozeman’s downtown. Notably there was a first-class local camera store, a dying breed even then. It had an array of vintage cameras in the window. Sadly, it’s gone.

It was obvious that Bozeman was going to explode. In fact, I was so smitten by the place that when we were contemplating our move back west it was a leading candidate. It checked all the boxes on my handy-dandy spreadsheet except two, weather and art scene. It was as cold as northern New Hampshire and its art offerings even today tilt toward “décor.” But it had a real university, Montana State, which has 16,0 00 students today. Their presence gives the town a buzz that only a bona-fide college town has. It boasted an honest to God Main Street replete turn of the 20^th century architecture with dollop of Art Deco. It was an outdoor adventure mecca. Now it suffers too much Hollywood and new money.

The train has left the station. Bozeman has joined the pantheon of Little Hollywoods of the Rockies. The three aces are Aspen, Jackson Hole and Telluride. In contrast to the Big Three, however, Bozeman is still a real working town. It gets my nod.

As the 90s were saying adios and we were looking west I prepared a chart of attributes that I felt were essential for a place to live. First on the list was university town. Yeah, I know Taos doesn’t have one. How the hell did we make that decision? On the other hand, you can’t swing a cat in Taos without hitting a PhD. Maybe that compensates a little.

As much as I foresaw Bozeman’s ascent, I couldn’t have predicted the magnitude of its growth and the income disparity that plagues the city and Gallatin County. Long term residents of the everyday variety, merchants, teachers, fireman and plumbers are being priced out. The median home price is 75% higher than the national median and median household income is 25% lower. Not sure that’s a sustainable spread. The onslaught of ricos has affected farming and ranching, too, as big operators like Ted Turner have scooped up vast swathes of prairie and mountainside leaving the little guy on the outside looking in.

While photographing in the postcard village of Spring Hill a woman in a gray pick-up stopped. Phyliss Huang rolled down the window and asked, “You okay? Do you have water?” I must have looked more desperate than normal. I answered that my wife painting at Wright’s Farm and that it was an easy walk back.

Wright's Farm, Springhill Community. The house on the right was the family home in A River Ran Through It.

The barn at Wright's Farm.

Almost immediately the conversation turned to the rising income disparity in the Gallatin Valley. In fact, every local I met got to that subject in the first two minutes. Phyliss said, “We’re essentially tenant farmers. We’ve been doing it since 1985.” She told me that she and her husband had just herded 5,000 head of cattle on the mountain. She said it had been almost impossible since they were at the mercy of the landowner who dictates how long the cattle can graze a particular pasture. The cows are “stressed out” because they have to move too soon.

Springhill School, the one room school where Ann Webster attended first through eighth grades. She said there were eight students.

A graveyard of old barns between Wright's Farm and the mountains.

Later at an art opening Peggy introduced me to Ann Webster who coincidentally owns the land that Phyliss and her husband use for their cattle. When I repeated what Phyliss had told me, Ann responded that as the landowner she had the right to require her “tenants” to move their cows if they're overgrazing a particular pasture. That was the case with Ms. Huang, and they were at odds about it. Further, the situation had been worsened by the severe drought. Less rain. Less grass and less time to graze a given pasture.

What are the odds that would have met a total of two people from the Springhill Community and they’re the lead players in this drama? Each, it seems, has a legitimate position. Imagine how many of these tales are untold in this time of generational drought.

At the foot of the Bridger Mountains is a wide spot in the road, Springhill Community. Settled in the late 1800s, it began as a timbering village. Now it’s home to sprawling ranches that reach high into the Bridger Wilderness. Ann Webster represents the fifth generation of Websters who cherish this land and continue to honor its rich history, shepherd it through uncertain times and protect it for her children and theirs.

Phyliss Huang chose to marry and raise her children in Springhill. Doubtlessly she and her husband love and cherish the prairie and mountains as much as Ann. She and Ron chose the life of ranching 5,000 head of Corriente cattle on land that isn’t theirs.

Truchas means trout

 

Peaked roof and gathering storm

Long Adobe #1

In France Truchas would be called a ‘village perché which means what you think it means, perched village. That’s as close to a cognate as you’re going to get from me. While it doesn’t sit at the highest point of the village or belvedere the entire place spreads from north to south where it joins the High Road.

Long Adobe #2

Long Adobe #3

Long Adobe #4

Long Adobe #5

Like the time warp it is, Truchas could be in the mountains of rural Mexico. One imagines that Spanish was the only language spoken there a hundred years ago. And fifteen years ago, the welcome mat was definitely not out for painters and photographers. When Robert Redford directed the sappy film extracted from John Nichols’ novel The Milagro Beanfield War in 1988, his team had to construct a Spanish Mission Church since there wasn’t one in Truchas. The locals were so angry with the interruption to their daily lives that when the cast and crew completed production and exited Truchas disenchanted townies burned the church down just for spite. Then, in some kind of divine retribution, when Redford had to reshoot scenes including the church he had to build it again. John Nichols, no fan of Redford in the first place, is still laughing.

As reported last week the eastern sky drew us to Truchas. It was sketchy in Dixon, more promising in Ojo Sarco, and downright stunning. Two of the vintage adobes grabbed our attention and one got most of the shots.

Two for one sale

Thankfully, we’re back to taking short photo jaunts. Last week’s sortie was to the epic San Luis Valley of Southern Colorado. And this week I’m sharing images from backroads nearer our Taos home.  We headed south to the town of Dixon, stopped for a few shots of the bell tower of San Antonio de Padua and proceeded toward the High Road to Taos via twisty state road 68. The partially dirt byway passes through red rock hoodoos that are reminiscent of Georgia O’Keefe country. We wound our way through Ojo Sarco and joined the High Road. We drove south to Truchas, a Hispano time capsule and budding art colony perched above a fertile valley with the Sangre de Cristos towering beyond.

We were searching for the moody skies of early evening. We made the 30-mile drive because a gathering storm above the mountains in the east looked promising. The farther east we drove the more brooding the sky became.

As I write this pedestrian text it occurs to me that this is a post about one swaybacked dwelling in Ojo Sarco. Then next week I'll showcase a long adobe with the corrugated roof in Truchas. That away I’ve killed two posts with one drive and one SD card.