Two Days Above the Cottonwood Empire

The Frontier jet entered Albuquerque airspace, circled the airport then wrenched into an unwieldy turn. While a weird maneuver in a place full of wide-open sky, Nancy and I tolerated the oddity. We had endured short flights and long layovers. Passing four hours in Denver International means finding a deserted section of Concourse A. We found a sparsely populated spot and listened to a mandolin player pick gently. Had I not idled my own mandolin several years ago, I might have summoned the courage to talk to him.

A few short steps later, our rented Mazda found our temporary accommodations, a loft apartment in a former bank building that had been the city’s tallest structure until 1954. The landlord handed us the keys, offered a quick demo of the home theater system, and left us to our new town.

We adjourned to the party deck that could have held 150. Only the two of us graced its windy heights. to glimpse a sunset almost beyond belief. Broken by the city’s signature extinct volcanoes and thatches of cloud, the sky blazed in apocalyptic hues before fading into the downtown’s mix of adobe surfaces and vibrant lights. The Wells Fargo building surged in electric green. Rush hour also faded and the streets grew lonely except for random people pacing in wait of downtown buses.

We headed north and found the Marble Brewery, arguably the city and state’s best known craft brewer. (read more here). Warmed by its delightful brews, we wandered back for dinner and a few relaxing hours in the loft. For our two nights atop downtown Albuquerque, a new pastime emerged: people watching from the third floor. None of the club goers looked upward. They bickered, they made out beneath the decorative arches of the Occidental Life Building, they stumbled and weaved down the wide sidewalks.

Sunrise from downtown rooftop

On Thursday, Nancy roused me early enough to catch the sun’s return to the valley, this time backlighting the massive Sandia Peaks. The tallest peak exceeds 10,000 feet, and the combination of jagged ridges, cumulus clouds and rising sun produced a spectacular lightshow. Sandia translates to “watermelon” in Spanish. It derives from the colored spectacle produced when the sunset hits the mountain’s crags.

We set out early, our eyes on a big breakfast chased with a hike in Petroglyph National Monument. Little Anita’s offered the first stab at those famous New Mexican chiles.  Nancy went green for the ranchero skillet while I embraced the tears of the red on a breakfast burrito. To take my focus on the searing heat, I eavesdropped on an adjacent booth, where two Albuquerque police offices discussed teens posting fight videos on YouTube.

Petroglyph National Monument sits just below the escarpment and its signature extinct volcanoes.

Soon we crossed the still Rio Grande, the first time I had ever seen its pooling water and richly vegetated banks. In winter, the cottonwoods cast a ghostly atmosphere above the placid waters. Here, the river was not a border but New Mexico’s main artery of life. A few miles from its banks and the land turns stark and arid. Beyond the cottonwood-crowded banks, an escarpment topped by five dead volcanic peaks defined the horizon. To look at its boundaries, the national monument designation arrived just in time to spare the escarpment from development’s shovels and suburban homes. I had never visited a national monument so close to a city, especially one of natural wonder. Petroglyph dominated Albuquerque’s west edge. Petroglyph’s designation protected this unique terrain, along a particularly old collection of graffiti. The ranger pointed us to Rinconada Canyon, the home to more than 1,200 petroglyphs, many sacred to the Pueblo people. The temptation to write off fresher petroglyphs as teenage vandalism soon vanished. Spirals, animal icons, human figures with wings and ornate headdresses emerged from the hill of volcanic boulders.

Nancy poses with a faded but ornate petroglyph.

 
We could not hope to see them all. Even in the bright morning sun, some images were barely visible through the rock, and gunshots had destroyed some. Those that survived were incredible. The animals and wild images enlivened the quiet canyon. Aside from a lone rabbit and handful of hikers, we had Rinconada’s outdoor gallery to ourselves and took plenty of time to examine the petroglyphs. After a little while, identifying them in the rocks became a game. At the canyon's end, we took the desert route back away from the petroglyphs.

We tried to find a place to park near access to the Rio Grande but had little luck. Instead, we wandered north into Los Ranchos du Albuquerque, the quiet village surrounded by Albuquerque proper. Los Ranchos brimmed with colonial character.

Open car windows and 25 mph speed limits allowed us to soak up its characters with a few miles of drifting. Wide lots held a big range of ranches, farms, and mansions. Lavender bloomed in fragrant rows on several lawns. Thoroughbreds grazed behind split-rail fences. Nancy spotted cranes, likely whooping cranes. The Rio Grande’s bosque ecosystem of dense cottonwood forests held sway over Los Ranchos. The Los Ranchos cottonwoods seemed taller. Everything about Los Ranchos felt even further apart from Albuquerque, a city already steeped in centuries of unique culture.

A work interview slowed our lunchtime plans, but gave enough time to sip on a New Mexico Cabernet Sauvignon. The state’s combination of parched desert and cool nights fit the grape well. We took to the roof again. The storms forecast for Albuquerque missed downtown, but entirely enveloped the Sandias. Any thought of taking the Sandia Peak Tramways disappeared. Fortunately, we had too many options at our hands already.

Old Town Plaza sits deserted near sunset.

 
With the interview and wine both finished, we ventured to Old Town, a slightly touristy but overly historic neighborhood. Built on a square founded in the early 18th century, the low-slung buildings contrasted sharply with the rest of Albuquerque. Old adobe homes had become stores and restaurants. In February, without the crush of tourists, its narrow streets were quaint and quiet. Before strolling through we opted for an unusual local choice, the International Rattlesnake Museum, which housed several dozen living rattlesnakes, including some truly rare animals.

While this was far from Nancy’s first choice, she enjoyed it. Many snakes remained coiled and rested. A few were active and only one offered a defensive rattle. Only one snake was born outside of captivity, a striped western diamondback. Even rarer was the albino western diamondback, a genetic quirk that in the wild would have made it easy prey. Snakes from Mexico, Costa Rica, the Great Plains and South America highlighted the displays; some other reptiles and arachnids rounded out the museum. The $5 admission fee earned us both a “Certificate of Bravery.” The museum could have turned out to be a tourist trap, but they knew their snakes. The collection took about 30 minutes to view, plus repeat visits to its more uncommon inhabitants.

After buying Brother Joe a museum T-shirt, we returned to the streets. I failed to realize I had become an easy mark. As we walked toward the San Felipe de Neri Church, someone called “senor” at me. I gave the man some money, one person being my daily quota for the homeless. When I gave it to him, he offered to light a prayer candle for me. When I gave him my name, he joyously said, “Billy the Kid! I was born in Silver City.” The famous outlaw began his brief life of crime in that southwestern New Mexico town. He departed as we entered the silent church. Its beauty speaks for itself. The church bore a humble, colonial feel. Its main structure dated back to 1793, with towers added in subsequent decades. It offered a brief spell of solitude from the busy city outside. We wandered through Old Town’s quiet corners and local merchants, where I found a New Mexican bison print that would fit the Western theme running on my apartment walls.

San Felipe de Neri Church in all its adobe glory.

Cutting out of Old Town, we headed east for a dose of Nob Hill. The neighborhood mixed trendy boutiques and college hangouts with the flourishes of a bygone era. The hotels and older restaurants bore the bright stamp of Route 66. The signage touts the road’s significance, but I still wonder what that road will mean to generations accustomed to eight-lane highways. At least it is still celebrated here.

Nob Hill’s had a feel few neighborhoods could replicate. We parked and walked around the hectic neighborhood’s main drag, looking for a dinner spot. In one of our few departures from New Mexican cuisine, we chose pizza and microbrews at the Il Vicino Brewing Company. For a post-dinner drink, we crossed the street to sample the wares of the Tractor Brewing Company. Nob Hill would occupy most of our night.

After Tractor we took a respite at the loft, but Nob Hill's pull proved too strong. Hunkering down at the Nob Hill Bar and Grill, Nancy sampled their classic cocktails while I stuck with local beer (except for one splurge, a Gueuze Fond Tradition). A friendly bartender gave us advice on what breweries to visit and the town in general.

Nob Hill's Hiway House sits on Route 66 and is among the last in operation.

Those touches mean a lot when visiting a new city. We ran into Smith's for some local libation back at the loft. Soon enough we were back at the open loft window, blaring Calexico instrumentals through the crisp sound system, critiquing the club hoppers and contemplating Friday morning and our first jaunt outside Albuquerque.