The Red Willow People

Standing inside the short walls of the Taos Pueblo, I was an outsider and always would be. But they let me in. 

That they would open the curtain on the pueblo, give us a glimpse of their world, seems downright generous. After the beliefs forced on the Taos Pueblo during the past six centuries, it’s amazing that they would not close their borders entirely. The government bombed the church that they reluctantly adopted, they took their sacred mountains and turned them into national forest (really Theodore Roosevelt, your decision made Richard Nixon look good). 

But in we went. Taos Pueblo charged non-tribal members $25 to enter a limited part of their enclave. The pueblo owned more than 100,000 acres that stretch from just north of the city of Taos to the heights of the Sangre de Cristo mountains that towered over their village. 

What non-tribal members could enter accounted for a handful of acres at best. Outside the pueblo, they also owned the land upon which the The many-storied apartments/condos of the Taos Pueblo had been dated between 1000 and 1400 A.D. As the tour guide told us, the Taos people like to believe they have been there far longer. 

They do not have a written language. Their language survives by being spoken. Our guide spoke flawless English, but said she speaks nothing but Tewa at home and with her friends. It is not a secret language, as she spoke it freely when asked to offer some Tewa phrases. But lack of writing gives it an immediate secrecy. I don’t blame them for that belief. 

This land beneath the mountains has paradisical qualities. Lush plains run along Red Willow Creek. Pine forests that coat foothills rise to mountaintops that will bear snow most of the year. Their name translates to the Red Willow People. Given the serene setting of the creek, it seems an apt description. 

 It was hard to take eyes off the pueblos, the main draw for visitors. Buildings shared walls but not doors. Some maintained the tradition of ladder entrances to the second floor. The pueblo accommodated elder members who could no longer make those climbs. Aside from cars and trucks, those who lived in the pueblo went without electricity and plumbing. For refrigeration, they had windowless rooms within their homes. 

If a household chose to move away, the pueblo did not keep up the property, allowing it to deteriorate. The Taos people attached no monetary value to the traditional Pueblo houses. 

 A little Catholic church lies at the heart of the pueblo, with a little courtyard where pueblo tours begin. Dogs roamed the open spaces. They were clearly pets, but they were clearly comfortable with following tours and angling for a scrap of food from the many visitors. 

The original San Geronimo Church lies past the pueblo buildings. The bell tower and some of the structure still stands. In the fenced churchyard tombstones and other grave markets cover much of the space where the church used to stand. 

The church was destroyed during the Taos Revolt. After negotiations with Gov. Charles Bent broken down and Bent ended up dead, the U.S. military took action against the pueblo, bombarding its church with cannon fire. The 150 women and children had taken shelter inside. I thought back to a display at the Kit Carson House, a pile of cannonballs recovered from the pueblo. Suddenly that pile of ordnance felt a lot less innocuous. 

After the church was destroyed, the Taos people began burying their people within the churchyard. Not all tribal members chose burial wit

hin the churchyards. The pueblo has another burial site where traditional burials are allowed (beyond not using coffins, our guide said burial details are only shared among tribal members). Many pueblo members turned the first floor of their homes into businesses – bakeries, coffeeshops, jewelry shops, and more. 

Red Willow Creek flowed swiftly between the two sets of traditional pueblos. The creek comes from Blue Lake, a glacially carved lake 20 miles up in the mountains. 

Once a part of Carson National Forest, Taos Pueblo successfully petitioned the Nixon Administration to return the lands to them, and the president acquiesced, ending decades of litigation. This ended public access for non-tribal members. The guide told me that aside from pilgrimage times twice a year, Blue Lake received light visitation from the tribal due to its distance from the pueblo. 

I have grown to admire Native emergence stories. I saw the wind coursing out of the only natural entrance to Wind Cave. It felt magical, holy. 

For the people of Taos Pueblo, Blue Lake is their origin location and where they believe their ancestors still reside. As an outsider, I could never access Blue Lake or even go beyond the adobe wall at the pueblo’s edge. 

But I could look to the mountains that morning and imagine the distant, unseen lake as the place of comfort, a place where spirits of those who passed could mingle freely with a language that thrive without being written.

Red Willow Creek