Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Up the Bishops Lodge Watershed
It was a cozy Sunday morning, with the fire and the coffee and the words and colors of a Taos painter. But overnight, a fresh coat had come out of the dark. The outer world called and I could resist no longer.
Aside from the thin coat on the ground, fresh dust would sometimes fall from shadows darkening an otherwise bright sky. I stepped off road down into arroyo, my feet rolling atop the unknown contour of root and stone. This was the animal world, their tracks a calligraphy across an otherwise white sheet: the oval of rabbit, the half-moon of deer, the trident of bird. Overlapping these were the broad prints of predators, coyote on the move, and perhaps even cougar. Yet the animals chose not to reveal themselves, but for a handful of flushed birds.
My own prints bisected juniper, passed reverently beneath Grandfather Spruce. They followed the curve of the arroyo until arriving at a low earthen wall too crumbly to climb. I turned and paralleled my path back down, gravity in my favor this time. I wondered how the day's traffic would be altered, new detours around the mark of boot, the scent of man, and the sung strains of "Powderfinger" still lingering in the air.
On the turntable: Mumford and Sons, "Cecil Sharpe House, 10-11-10"
On the nighttable: Mabel Dodge Luhan, "Winter in Taos"