We awoke with sunrise and
headed eleven miles north to Arroyo Hondo. Maggie knew the history of the town
and how the Mexican and native rebellion shed blood in this little town a
hundred years before: how mountain-men… so-called heroes like Kit Carson and
others were part of battles in Arroyo Hondo and Taos: how the rebel leaders,
Mexicans and natives from the local tribes, were all hanged after the army
defeated them. She briefly told us about it all as the Volkswagen passed the
general store, church and homes on the only street that headed towards a series
of mesas stretching out like fingers from the mountains beyond the town. A dirt
road led us up a winding path that held to the sides of an arroyo; switching from one
side to the other; passing a geodesic dome and climbing up a series of S-curves
to the top where a parking lot with a few vehicles sat incongruously. This was
as far on the mesa as any motor vehicles were allowed.
At the parking lot was a fire
pit where a few scrubby looking men sat passing a jug of wine. One of the fireside
fellows hit us up for spare change towards another jug. I had a few quarters
and dimes on me and gave them a couple. I took a hit off the jug but I can’t
remember much other than what some of these guys looked like: no names come to
mind. Maggie led us across the field to a newly constructed pueblo.
The buildings were arranged in
a triangle and each held three or four living spaces. We went to the first that
was occupied by a couple named Joe and Kathie. Joe was a trimly built native
with long black braids and Kathie was a petite reddish-blond haired woman with bright
blue green eyes. They knew Maggie and greeted us warmly. After a few friendly
minutes Joe showed us the Kiva; a circular hogan building with adobe bricks a
couple feet up from the ground around a pit with two tiers stepping up from the floor. A fifty-gallon drum burned wood to heat it. Though there were portholes of light
from windows made of wine bottles set into the adobe, it was dark and only
shadows of people could be seen until my eyes adjusted to it. This was where visitors
or transients were able to have shelter temporarily as a kiva is traditionally
a ceremonial communal meeting place and not meant to be used as a dwelling.
I put my gear down and, after
getting to know some of the folks, I climbed out the hole in the center of the
roof on a pole with steps carved into it for a ladder. I could see that the
pole wasn’t a support for the timbers that radiated over the space below. The
ends of timbers around the hole we climbed out of were notched; one was placed
on top of the other so that the simplicity and strength of it was contributed
to via their mutual support. I had never seen anything like it. To me it
symbolized what communal living there would be all about. I was anxious to see
how true this was.Then I was told by Jason how they had all worked
together to put those timbers in place; standing under them in faith that they
wouldn’t be crushed if it failed as each let go of their end… what a wonder!
My travelling partner, Norm,
said he was going to keep going with Maggie and I understood. We’d had some
adventures together and I had grown fond of him but I was glad he’d found a
companion in Maggie. The Volkswagen left down the grade and that was the last
I’d seen of either of them. So there I was, alone and on the plateau of another
adventure that would positively affect my outlook on life from that day on. I've gone through my life in awe of the few moments decisions are made… most
serendipitously… that are imprinted for a lifetime.
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