Saturday Elevation: Turquoise, Santa Fe and Sandia

Snow-dappled mountains greeted us on Saturday, the dry air still welcoming. Turning east, Interstate 40 wrapped through the foothills, depositing at the head of the Turquoise Trail, a slower but no less vibrant road that rose up to Santa Fe, America’s highest capital.

Passing some slightly suburban tracts, we quickly found ourselves on the opposite face of the Sandias yet away from most traces of 21st century America. It refreshed us to breathe the cool alpine air, to walk among the high desert cacti. We breezed through Madrid, a community enlivened by artist galleries and bed and breakfasts. The temperature felt below freezing in Madrid. The infamous Mineshaft Tavern had not opened yet, nor had many of the galleries, so we motored on.

Up the trail, we turned onto the dusty streets of Cerrillos. Much like tombstone and other mining boom towns of the American West, Cerrillos had an opera house, churches and marks left by those who rapidly descended in search of fortunes. The Cerrillos trading post was open at that hour, the husband and wife team selling turquoise that their son mined in southern New Mexico then set into jewelry. Nancy bought her sister a piece, I bought Nancy … well, she will see. While I looked, she ventured to an outlook over the hills, where the trading post maintained a small petting zoo of llamas, goats and wildly plumed chickens. They knew people meant food, and posed for the second best picture of the trip.

How nicely will you pose for the possibility of food?

From Cerrillos the trail took a quick series of climbs, crossed I-25 and drifted into the strips malls that lined Santa Fe’s outskirts. Fifteen minutes passed before we crossed into the core city’s narrow streets. I parked as soon as possible, remembering Will Rogers’ thoughts on Santa Fe ("Whoever designed the streets in Santa Fe must have been drunk, and riding backwards on a mule").

The elevation hit us immediately. At 7,000 feet above sea level, no U.S. capital sits higher. Snow clung to the ground in many places and peppered the fir trees. St. Francis Cathedral, the stately church at the end of the block that tested our adaptation to Santa Fe’s height. Rebuilt in the mid-19th century, Biblical art and recreations filled every nook of the church. Statues of St. Francis of Assisi adorned the patio before its massive doors. Built from local limestone, the cathedral towered over the rest of the historical district.

Its full name is Cathedral Basilica of Saint Francis of Assisi.

Leaving the church, we wandered onto Santa Fe's streets, past more historic markers. The mountains beyond the city hemmed it beautifully. Winter felt appropriate in Santa Fe, not oppressive (had we been there during the snowstorm, I might have disagreed). Finally we came around the one of my must-stops in any seat of government, the state capitol.

New Mexico stayed unique with its capitol design. Instead of the dome so common elsewhere, the round building resembles a Zia sun symbol. We walked the snowy grounds to get a better idea of the building's design. Situated on a hill just above many old town attractions, the capitol was a hive of activity. We had to peek inside.

Trees made it tough to capture the unique style of New Mexico's capitol building.

Government on a Saturday morning - who knew?

With the rotunda crammed with people advocating all sorts of issues we couldn't vote on, we opted for one of the side galleries, and ended up sitting in on a Saturday session of the New Mexico House of Representatives. The silver-maned House Speaker, Ben Lujan, thanked the patrons in the gallery for coming out on a Saturday. During the opening prayer, the reciting legislator’s voice cracked when mentioning Lujan, who announced in January that he had Stage IV lung cancer and would not run for another term. He seemed unfazed by his illness that Saturday, eager and full of energy. It amazed us to see a legislature in action on a weekend. Like all government activities, the session moved slowly. So we departed.

On our hunt for lunch, we came upon St. Miguel Mission, the oldest church in continuous operation. The roof caved in when the Pueblo burned Santa Fe and a restoration of the original adobe walls was in progress. At the front of the church sat a bell with a 1356 date stamp. The docent told us the conflicting origin stories – the bell was either struck in the 14th century, shipping across the Atlantic then carted up from the gulf, or someone had scraped 1856 into 1356. I would like to believe the former, but am resigned to the latter. The bell was not as impressive as the centuries-old animal skin painting on the chapel walls.

Up above downtown, a quick lunch awaited at the San Francisco Street Bar and Grill, which produced fine New Mexican spins on pub grub. The crowds thickened as the snow began to melt, the weekenders arriving in droves, so it felt good to escape.

We strode through downtown so fast I actually missed the square and the Palace of the Governors the first time. Santa Fe’s maps project a much bigger city. Everything was clustered together on a smaller scale. On every corner, history twice as old as the nation thrived. When crossing one street we followed a creek packed deep with snow. The creek turned out to be the Santa Fe River, which cartographers had turned into a broad stream. I’ll chalk that up to artistic license.

Palace of the Governors merchants stay busy on Saturdays.

Since I first heard about the Palace, I had visions of its single story. America’s oldest public building had been a seat of government for the Spanish, Mexican, Confederate and U.S. governments, not to mention the Indian Pueblo that preceded Santa Fe’s existence. General Lew Wallace wrote Ben-Hur while stationed there. For a century, it housed the state’s history museum. Licensed Pueblo merchants crowded the palace’s front promenade to sell pottery and jewelry. Sections of the floor covered in plastic revealed the old foundation. Conquistador armor, animal skin paintings and fragile books dated back to early Santa Fe. Only the palace and St. Miguel survived the Pueblo insurrection in the 1580s, but numerous artifacts told New Mexico’s rich tale. A newer wing sat across the courtyard, housing more modern New Mexico history. Here stood the clock punctured by a bullet during Pancho Villa’s raid on the train station in Columbus, New Mexico. An unofficial flag sewn with 47 stars hung on the wall. Because of the Flag Act, stars for new states are only added on July 4 of each year. Because Arizona entered the Union a month after New Mexico, the U.S. never officially produced 47-star flags.

Pancho Villa's men shot this clock in 1916

 Another room illustrated the secrecy surrounding development of the Trinity testing site for the first atomic bomb. People working on the project came into Santa Fe only to disappear into the desert. They could not communicate with their families but a few times a year. Rejoining the interstate, the elevation dropped quickly toward Albuquerque as we passed a steady succession of pueblos. Leaving the highway, we turned past a giant casino and saw a rare treat across the street. Bison grazed in a paddock, while several younger ones galloped along the fence. A trip west never feels finished without some flourish of wildlife. No matter how big a pen ranchers place around bison, they never lose their wild manners.

Plenty of daylight remained as we reached the tramway headquarters in the Sandia foothills. In 20 minutes, we would stand atop the highest point around Albuquerque. The building sat more than 6,000 feet above sea level, higher than we experienced in Albuquerque but barely an indication of what waited on the peak. To calm her nerves, Nancy took a quick drink in the bar. I should have joined her.

Once the car moved toward those distant guide towers, I could not look back. We both gripped the railing in the car for dear life. Neither of us could look outside. I tried concentrating on the wires and the guide towers. That didn’t work. The wires drooped so low in places, making it hard to gauge how the tram car could possibly maintain upward momentum. Swiss and French engineers advised the New Mexican tramway owners more than 40 years ago, and their expertise showed. Aside from the overstated “bump and sway” when the tram passed over the two guide towers, it offered a smooth ride. The tramway operator warned as the car slowed above the highest point above the ground along the route – 1,100 feet down. That bothered me less than the slight crack in the window, through which the Winds of Thor whistled furiously. My grip loosened as we moved further up into the mountain and I could focus on the jagged sub-peaks close to the summit.

As we approached the mountaintop dock, the flurries kicked up. Snow coated the lookout decks. Albuquerque’s rooftops glowed in the dying embers of Saturday. Our cameras cold not penetrate the field of flakes to catch a good city shot. A thermometer indicated a temperature around 20 degrees, a far cry from the 60s we felt in the valley below. Here a stranger took the best picture of the trip, snowstorm or not.

 We entered the bar and grill atop the peak, crowded with late-day visitors and skiers.  At the bar, several red-faced military men quaffed their beers after hiking up the trail. They had started around the time we wound north on the Turquoise Trail and just reached the peak. In their presence, it was hard not to feel like a cheater for taking the 12-minute tramway ride. After an hour or so at the top, we had to come down. The ski lifts on the opposite face had shut down for the day, and more skiers waiting for transport back to Albuquerque.

The descent came easier. We trusted the tram now (I overheard the operator say he only turned back once, when staff spotted lightning strikes).  The bump barely registered and the scare caused by the boulder fielders hundreds of feet below had faded.

Sunset on the Sandia Range ( named for watermelon because of this color)

We returned to the bison pen, and this surly bunch had no patience for photographs. No sooner did we stop than the herd began migrating deeper into their enclosure, grunting ceaselessly. We each snapped a few pictures, but the purple hues past sunset kept catching their eyes, the glimmer making them look almost demonic. The average bison is gruff enough.

For our final meal, we ventured back to  the North Valley for a last taste of New Mexican cuisine to Casa Benavidez. Far from the suburban lanes of our hotel, the family-owned restaurant's large windows highlighted waterfalls and gardens. An elderly man, possibly in his eighties, sat on a stool plucking a nylon string guitar. He never paused, moving straight from tune to tune, sprinkling standards into his unending set. The waitress visited regularly with pitchers of water, noting that Saturday’s chiles seemed a little hotter than normal. I won’t contend that point. The carne adovada did not challenge my palate, but ignited a delightful, intense heat I never felt in any meal. With fully bellies and an early flight back to reality, the meal marked closed our Albuquerque sojourn with the right blend of overpowering spices.

I wasn't ending this without another sunset shot.