I always end up on the edge of the Rio Grande in mid-November when I need to clear my head, straighten out my seemingly crooked life, put things in perspective and chart my next course. That’s what I did this afternoon.
November in Taos is a magical time. Summer tourists are gone, skiers not yet arrived. The streets feel deserted as dried leaves blow around in them. You can see who actually lives here now that we are not swallowed up in the sea of strange faces. Taos becomes our town again, until the next tourist swell.
The Rio Grande bustles in summer with rafters, swimmers, campers, cyclists and Sunday drivers. It’s difficult to relax with so much activity. Even the water is high and rushing, adding to the frenetic pace. But come fall, the water is low and lazy, and so am I. Maybe that’s why I resonate with it and feel a need to connect in November.
As I went west off the main highway into the canyon, I turned off the stereo and opened my window. I wanted to hear the river and the evidence of the wind, and smell decomposing leaves and wet sand. My hybrid car was in electric mode coasting down the curvy narrow road – absolute silence, except for a bit of dried mud speaking from a rear wheel.
The serenity of public lands off-season cannot be equaled. I saw a man and his dog fishing, and a half-dozen cars were taking this scenic back road home to the vast mesa on the west side of the river. Other than that, it was just me and the browns, reds, yellows and blue-greens of the dusty scenery. In my muddy gray car and sage green pants, I blended right in.
Rivers in the desert are special. They are small and rare, making them huge. The Rio Grande is far from physically grande, but es muy grande spiritually and ecologically.
As I walked along it and absorbed the magic, the late fall sun backlit seedheads and cactus spines, making them glow with colors not seen at another angle or another time of year. Gray driftwood rocked in the rapids, not to free itself, but maybe to soothe itself, like a mama rocking its baby to sleep. Cliff swallows sang their melancholy song that reminds me of a downward spiral.
Layers of canyon walls overlapped as I looked downstream, each segment a turn in the river’s journey. Canyons and boulders cast shadows, creating visual and spiritual depth. A mackerel sky threatened me with a forecast of rain tomorrow. The wind rustled the crispy leaves of the cottonwoods.
Anyone who thinks the desert is barren has not been to a river in November. I filled my well this afternoon, and I now have the strength to tackle winter.
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You picked the right time. The last time this year, maybe.
When the acequias are “turned on” in the spring, I feel the same way. There’s something electric about water in the desert.
Yeah, judging by the weather reports for the next several days, I think I hit it right! I’d love to go across the bridge, though, and take some pics of snow from up on the mesa on the west side.
From here can I smell the grandeur of decaying leaves along the Rio Grande, thanks in no small part to your essay. Thank you. May this winter be one of great energies and may you pogo into spring.
Pogo-ing into spring sounds delightful, Esmaa!