Chapter 10. The Goat Pasture

The mesa was divided, east of the pueblo, by a barbed wire fence beyond which was a pasture for a herd of goats. A hundred feet in from the gate of the fenced area was a small A-frame, not much bigger than a pup-tent. I asked around to find out who lived there and it was presently vacant. There were a few temporary structures from the previous year around the property. They were lived in until the more permanent pueblo or hogans were built (the burlap/concrete wickiup I mentioned was one such place).

I liked the idea of living among the goats and moved into the A-frame after sharing the wickiup with a half-dozen other young men for a week or two. The A-frame was comfortable; having a hinged door and at the other end, a small adobe hearth (about one square foot in size) with a tin chimney jutting out of the tin roof. A couple sticks was enough fuel to warm it up keep and had elbow room enough for two people. Though it’s height wasn’t enough for standing, I could crouch and sit with ease. Outside, in front, was a larger fire-pit with iron tripod for hanging a pot and a grill for a cast-iron frying pan. It was almost a full kitchen for me: good for oatmeal, beans, rice and frying-up anything else… occasionally eggs and tortillas.

My first night sleeping in the A-frame was one of tremendous relief. At last I had a place of my own. I sat by the open fire pit after sunset under the stars and, as the coals burned down, I retired inside the A-frame taking some of the live coals to start a fire in the hearth. I wrote in my journal: First night… at home, high above the plain and deep inside my castle, I will sleep well tonight. I snuffed the flame in the kerosene lamp and drifted off to sleep.

I awoke just before sunrise to the sound of hooves on the roof. I came out of the A-frame to see what was on the roof. Charley, the alpha goat, greeted me with a, “Eah-eh-eh-a-a-ah!” It was the beginning of a testy but sweet relationship. Charley made sure that I knew exactly who was in-charge of things in his pasture by sneaking up and gently butting me from behind as I walked from the A-frame to the gate. The trick was not to react in any manner. If I was to make a break and run for it, I would have been run down and I can say from experience, run down rather violently. To stand my ground and push back was an even bigger mistake because goats love to push back. It wasn’t enough to push back a little and try to walk away. Once the pushback had been initiated you were committed until something like a Huey med-evac-ed your dumbass.

I was pleased with my digs and enjoyed the solitude of living in the goat pasture. There was something that felt biblical about it. After a couple weeks, I had been sitting by my fire pit and enjoying a pot of rice and beans. Across the mesa a dark cloud approached at eye level. It looked apocalyptic as it neared. The sky was clear otherwise but soon the black bottom of a thunderhead took up the whole sky. It was ominous enough that I was struck with fear for a moment and, as a bolt of lightning burst from the belly of the cloud fifty feet from where I was sitting, I felt naked and exposed. It exploded with such force I found myself flat on the ground. The storm wasn’t done with me yet; with bolts of lightning thundering, booming a barrage, a cannonade, lightning and hail stones striking and drumming the earth all around my naked spot on the mesa. Awe replaced fear as I surrendered to the fact that there was absolutely nothing I could do… there was nowhere to run or hide. My little A-frame was the most prominent thing to cower in on the entire mesa. I saw the goats huddled, huddled down together under the piñón trees for protection from the hail stones and rain. Charlie bravely stood his ground and watched over his girls and kids. Even goats heed the call of leadership and its attendant responsibilities in the face of horror. Charlie had earned his stripes as Alpha Goat on this and countless other occasions. I cowered in the A-frame.

The storm passed almost as fast as it arrived. I crawled out from the cover of the A-frame; the odor of argon-electricity and fresh rainfall had wakened my senses. I didn’t know it at the time but the tin roof made a perfect Faraday cage that would’ve protected me.

About that time an old bread-truck rumbled up into the parking lot between the goat pasture and the pueblo. I walked over to check out the new arrivals. The winos at the parking lot fire pit had headed for shelter when the storm dumped its load so I was there before they returned to pan-handle a jug from the newcomers. The driver, a middle-aged man in a fringed jacket, jumped out as soon as the bread-truck stopped.

I offered a greeting, “Hello…”

The guy ignored me as he pulled out his prick and took a leak on the rear tire of the truck. A young man with curly jet-black hair and black leather motorcycle jacket came out the other side “I’m Stan and that’s Ghost. He don’t talk much… you want some bread n’ peanut butter?”

Ghost went back into the truck and brought out the loaf of white bread and, with a good-sized skinning knife, popped the lid off a jumbo government surplus can of peanut butter. Using the same knife, he slathered the thick oily goo onto a couple slices while I watched as I would when anyone pulls out a knife that size.  

“I see…” I took the bread without thinking about it when he passed one he’d prepared for me. I felt obligated to repay the gesture. I pointed towards the pasture, saying, “I got some rice and beans over in that A-frame.”

Stan was enthusiastic about my offer, he finished off his slice, half-complaining, “Great, this shit’s good but it gets old. We gots a couple mess kits I kin bring.”

We walked to the A-frame. Ghost hesitated at the fence eying Charlie, who was taking notice at the strangers entering his domain.

“Avoid eye contact and you’ll be okay.” I assured him, “Where are you all coming from?” I asked, more to make friendly noises than out of curiosity.

“Detroit, we drove straight through. We were on the way to L.A. but a hitch-hiker in Kansas told us about Taos and free land… or at least a place to crash for a week or two.”

“Hey, I heard that rumor in L.A. That’s how I got here. I wonder where these stories get started?”

Several minutes went by as we noshed on bread and beans before Ghost spoke, “There was an article in Newsweek.”

“Oh?” I hadn’t opened a newspaper or magazine since Altamont.

“Yah,” Stan offered, “It said there were communes and homestead land in Northern New Mexico and hippie chicks and shit from all over are leaving the cities and getting back to nature here.”

The courtyard between the wings of the pueblo had a table where a common meal was served. Everyone pooled whatever they had. It was a chance to get together, make plans and whatever. The organizing that got done got done there. Not everyone participated in the common meal as it was characteristically an open-ended affair. However, it was an opportunity to feel a part of, and contribute to, the group.

“Let’s take what’s left here to the pueblo, I’ll introduce you to the people.”

We enjoyed a brown rice concoction with some chicken pieces stir-fried into it. Alongside of that was a tortilla type bread called chipâté made of several whole grains. When I first got there, I heard folks talk of macro-biotic diet but had no idea what that meant except for lots of brown rice, whole grains, beans and, for the non-vegetarians, some meat like chicken... rarely beef. If anything was sweetened, raw sugar or honey was preferred. If salted, iodized table-salt was taboo, sea-salt was the regimen.

Ghost was quiet but for an occasional grunt or observation of no more than two or three words and Stan did the most of the talking for him. It seemed not to matter to anyone. People were welcoming. Besides the landscape, the thunder and lightning, the mountains and streams, I enjoyed these moments of comradeship the most. Even though Ghost was near mute, people had no trouble warming up to him and he to them.

Most of the people had food-stamps. The irony of that back-to-the-land policy became evident to me when Ghost took some of us into Taos in his bread truck and we applied for food-stamps. Thus, thanks to the so called “establishment”, food wasn’t as much a problem as water.

Every household had a couple of heavy glass five-gallon water bottles or cans that got filled whenever anyone with a vehicle went into town. At Arroyo Hondo the cans were filled with tap-water from the gas station. Otherwise, one had to hike; with a five-gallon plastic can, that fit neatly into most standard back packs, over the mesa a half-mile to a small creek that emptied into a pond. A pond had been made by bull-dozer that dammed up the creek before winter set in.

During my stay, the creek water posed no problem but, as the weather warmed up in late spring, dysentery became a real problem. A well was in the plan to be drilled as soon as the group got enough cash to pay for it. But there was no progress on the well in the time I was there. We settled then for filling up our cans with tap-water down in town.

Ghost took some of us into town once again to get provisions and water. Several folks piled into the van and we made for a happy group. Passing the Foster Freeze, some yakked about how organic food rendered greasy hamburgers a disgusting food choice. At the Organic Food Co-op I was introduced to all kinds of foods I hadn’t heard of. My favorite was Halvah bars made from honey and tahini. It was there that I discovered tahini, blue corn-meal and several varieties of wild honey. For those of us awaiting approval for food stamps, the Co-op was generous with a line of credit that almost everyone I knew abused.

Being winter, coupled with the high altitude, there was very little need for refrigeration, so we also bought huge five and ten-pound logs of sharp cheddar cheese. On the way back, by consensus, it was decided that the van pull over at the Foster Freeze. No one turned down the offer of a greasy hamburger and milk shake as a reward for our dietary diligence… especially those who maligned bourgeois values and food only a few hours before. All, except for Ghost, Stanley and I, expressed certain guilt for their weakness and betrayal of culinary values.

Stanley said to me, as we finished off some salty fries and ketsup, “Them’s Booshy-washy guilt trips.”