The Fort Bowie foot approach

South of Bowie – fictional birthplace of the fictional John Rambo, home to a few trading posts and pecan orchards – the orchards end and the mountains loom large. 

The fort that gave the town its name wasn’t far, but hidden among the ridges . Getting there wasn’t so simple. Apache Pass Road feels like any dirt road until you imagine traversing it in Butterfield Stage. At a wide spot in the road, the foot path to the fort descends into the landscape. For most, the Fort Bowie Experience begins here.

Trail near Apache Pass Road

Fort Bowie offered an approach more historic forts could adopt. Only those who require accessibility could drive up to the visitor center. For those in decent health – which theoretically includes me - the visitor center required a 1.5-mile hike up a sometimes-shady trail. 

Late this Monday morning, I wanted all the shade I could find; summer temperatures lingered into October, baked the picturesque mountains. 

Passing one hiker, I asked her if was worth the hike. She affirmed it would be worthwhile, so I continued as the path cut in out and of the shade, up and down dry creek beds and small hills. Through signs, ruins, and natural features, the trails traces much of the history behind the Fort Bowie National Historic Site.

 The visitor center has some artifacts but is relatively small, so reading signs and markers in the valley illustrated the long history and the few violent decades that gave rise to Fort Bowie. 

Restored Apache dwelling

Instead, the trail hike supplied much of the Fort Bowie background. This secluded valley was once the homeland of the Chiracahua Apache people, best known for its famed leaders Geronimo, as well as Cochise, who often held the piece with settlers but famously cut his way out of a tent when soldiers attempted to hold him hostage for crimes his band didn’t commit. 

The path crossed a pioneer cemetery, the remains of the Butterfield Stage station (abandoned after the Bascom Affair) and the remnants of the Indian Agency office established in the 1870s when the San Carlos Apache reservation was formed. 

While the Butterfield office closed in 1862 due to the Civil War, Fort Bowie was created following the Battle of Apache Pass. The early fort would be replaced by more sturdy structures in 1868. Geronimo would fight until 1886, ending the Apache Wars and beginning his decades of imprisonment in Florida then Oklahoma, never again to see his homeland. 

Apache Spring

The second iteration of Fort Bowie closed in 1894 and fell into ruin, although much of the adobe foundations remain, making it easier to picture the fort’s bustling heyday as well as the earlier Apache camps. Along with massive horse corrals, the fort ruins included old and new hospitals, officers quarters that surrounded a parade ground centered on a flag post, separate infantry barracks, and a trading post on the fort’s edge. 

With arid land for dozens of miles in every direction, Apache Spring made the land valuable. The Chiracahua defended it from early Spanish intrusions, the Spanish referring to Apache Pass as the “pass of chance” because of the Chiracahua Apache. 

Water still flows from Apache Springs, although in early autumn the flow is minimal. Not treat for drinking, the spring resembles a 20-foot-long strand of water across some rocks that hid it from easy views.

From the spring, the path rises to the ruins of Fort Bowie. They seem older than their years, having been left to decay after the Apache Wars but still giving the fort a framework. 

The cabin-like visitor center overlooks the ruins of the fort, and the wrapround porch proved a good place to observe them while a liter of water or three. I stayed long enough to take in the exhibits and stop sweating for a while.

Parched and sweaty, I ascended to Apache Pass Road, looking back into the valley steeped in history and secrets. 

Some people asked me about the hike and I couldn’t speak; my mouth was too dry. I gave them a thumbs-up and cut around to tackle the last 100 steps up the hillside to Apache Pass Road. 

Chugging some needed water, I couldn’t stop staring at those mountains and their folds guarding the cool spring that brought life to the western edge of the Chihuahuan Desert.

Southbound and down: Chiracahua country

To break up the ballooning days, I headed south for a night, leaving Albuquerque well before first light. The territory of southeast Arizona called to me. This country was dotted with sky islands and small towns  added to the U.S. in the Gadsden Purchase, the last addition to the lower 48.

I barely remember the initial drive. Sunrise caught me near Elephant Butte Reservoir, New Mexico’s major dam on the Rio Grande, named for a massive mesa-turned-island in its waters. Truth or Consequences passed quicker than anticipated, changing my stopping point for breakfast to Hatch. 

Instead of covering the last 40 miles to Las Cruces – the Organ Mountains already loomed in the sunrise haze – I diverted to tiny Hatch, anchor of New Mexico’s chile pepper region. Known as the Chile Capital of the  World, the town was quiet on residential streets with a little traffic on its main drag. 

My hopes of seeing what living in Hatch was like were quickly dashed. A skinny orange cat trotted down the sidewalk and as I called at it, disappeared into the storm drain. I hope it didn’t live there, but who knows with a cat. 

The Pepper Pot restaurant called out for breakfast. I couldn’t come to Hatch and not sample the wares. A pepper-heavy omelette and fresh baked tortilla on the side would power me all the way to Chiracahua. 

 The state route to Deming cuts off significant mileage but passes through some quiet, desolate country rimmed by august mountains and plains that seem to stretch to the Mexican border. 

To the north stand impenetrable mountains that house Silver City and the Gila Cliff Dwellings National Monument. I considered stopping there until realizing how truly remote that park unit is. 

The urge to stop in Deming was negated by the desire to maximize my one night in Chiracahua country. A hour of interstate clicked away as I crossed into Arizona. Other than the sign, the geography of the Gadsden Purchase country did not change. 

Pecan groves

The rare air of the Albuquerque International Balloon Fiesta

Every Albuquerque International Balloon Fiesta trip must get treated like it will be the last. The crew I know and respect isn’t getting any younger, and licensing grows tougher as pilots pass 60. So I can’t take a chance and wait till next year. 

While I still have some strength in my limbs, I want to help where I can, even if I’m not handy enough to help as much as I would like. In early September I got the message from the balloon crew. I didn’t hesitate to accept. 

For my third time at the Duke City’s biggest annual event, I decided to work the front end of the festival. Since the festival begins the first full weekend of October and runs nine days, I can pick and choose days. 

As with Colorado, Albuquerque ran hotter than October norms. Allergies I put to rest in Colorado Springs picked up where they left off. Central New Mexico too was setting records on a daily basis – Albuquerque also sits at a mile above sea level, so the climate was similar. 

I knew the routine. Hang out the night before the fiesta, get to bed by 9 a.m. because we had to be curbside for the balloon bus at 4:45 a.m. I had no trouble shutting down, as if my body knew what had to happen the next few days. 

Overly caffeinated and light on sleep, the crew hit the field well before sunrise. Two things immediately stuck out – the warmth (many balloon mornings start cold) and the wind. We brought out the basket and burner to prepare for the sunrise flight. You almost know immediately if the balloons will fly. If the wind hits you when stepping off the bus, you hope it will calm down by sunrise. The continued hot temperatures worked against getting balloons in the air; it would take too much propane to keep them afloat once the temperatures got past the 70s. 

The international aspect of the International Balloon Fiesta was on display both during the morning drone show – the drones assembled into the Earth and red stars marked all the countries represented among the pilots. 

It was also represented in the crowd. As we handed out cards and discussed the balloon with spectators, the first day was clearly heavy on international tourists. Some people come for all nine days, some come for as little as one session on overnight charter buses from cities several hundred miles away.

Even as the flags on the field’s perimeter stood up in the wind, the pilots were clearly eager to get into the sky. But the wind on the field gave many second thoughts about flying. If balloons could not get into the sky fast enough, the wind was a problem. One balloon several rows north burnt a hole in its envelope, not how anyone wants to open the fiesta. 

We briefly stood up the balloon to offer something to the crowd gathered for the inaugural morning ascent. What we didn’t know was not long after clearing the field, the winds eased, and the balloons pushed northwest and away from the reservation. 

We intended to glow on Saturday and Sunday evenings, but the winds would not comply. The only balloons that stood up were those with corporate logos on their fabric, and the wind tossed them around. That resulted in dozens of balloons candlesticking – assembling the balloon basket, the burner, and lighting the burner in concert with the other crews. It’s not perfect, but it lights the night in a delightful way. 

In Sunday's ascent, we ran into a different issue. The balloons took off with ease but headed south. Go too far south toward downtown and landing spots grow scarce. The balloon came down a short distance from the field, in a dirt lot past a RV park, scrubby cacti and other desert plants everywhere.

A dozen or more balloons chose the same spot. Next to us landed the Smokey the Bear balloon – while Smokey is a regular fiesta participant, this balloon was new for Smokey’s 80th anniversary, and that Sunday was its inaugural flight. Our crew paled compared to Smokey’s as people piled out of the chase van. We had three in the vehicle, and one of the crew on the flight already rolled up the balloon before we could bring the chase van up. 

The balloon field remains a hive of activity through the day, with helicopter landings, aerial jumpers, and more. Our Sunday brunch was nearly a casualty of the copter landings. New Mexico State Police and Bernalillo County Sheriff gave us no problems, but Albuquerque PD came in low and set off a wind that flipped our serving tables. Luckily everything was still sealed. The crew had a second pilot this year albeit in a smaller balloon scale. 

Kevin, a regular on the balloon crew, had a remote-controlled balloon built, and was participant in the fiesta’s multiple RC displays. The Wiley B, which has a Wiley Coyote and Roadrunner theme - including a stencil of the two on the balloon fabric and toys of each in the miniature balloon basket - took several short ascents from the field. Known as Globitos, the RC balloons are a run break from those full-scale models that rise for the morning ascent. 

Even if we don’t get into the sky, the days do remain full, and it takes nothing away from the experience. You talk and relax when not on the fiesta schedule. When I remember a time when even visiting the fiesta seemed out of reach, I won’t complain about an instant of my time on the field. 

I returned Tuesday night for one last ascent on Wednesday morning. Our pilot took me and another friend of the crew up. We set up quickly and got the balloon upright to take advantage of the last moments before the sun rose behind the Sandia Mountains. 

I may never experience the sunrise from a hot air balloon again – every ride must feel like the last. I tried to soak in every ray, every bit of sudden color catching the rocks, the fiesta field, the trees and buildings across Albuquerque. Dogs barked, people waved and we exchange good mornings with a few.

The balloon headed south from the field then kicked west. We drifted over the Rio Grande. The river still flowed as a series of braided ribbons and the occasional deep pool. Fisherman looked up at us and the other balloons, some which dropped altitude to dip their baskets in the waters. Due to an incoming balloon, we had to rapidly increase altitude. 

This changed the flight significantly by pushing us out of the current taking us west and into a southerly current. But we couldn’t slow down enough for our crew to wrangle us. Mike the pilot strapped in, gave us a safety talk and prepared us to push through the tops of cottonwoods to slow our pace. 

The balloon basket weighs 800 pounds – it would have to go deep into a tree to become stuck. Hitting the top five feet of branches was jarring to us passengers, but the basket plowed through them like a mower blade to grass. I fell into the basket to avoid getting tossed, although the basket didn’t tip or even come close. 

We were slower, but definitely not slow enough. Finally a landing option emerged, a big white X in a grassy field. We had to take another plunge into the treetops. This time we ended up with several small branches in the basket but our progress stalled. 

The drop line went down, and we eased onto a small farm a few miles south of the balloon field. When I finally crawled from the basket, I felt a bit of relief.

The crew had a few days of good flying ahead, but this marked the end for me. We rolled up the envelope squeezing all the air out before bagging it, packed and loaded for one last brunch on the balloon field. 

No balloons linger over the Sandia Valley past mid-morning, and these hotter days ended flights even earlier. Even if the fiesta had four more days of morning flights, the departure felt like the proper time for me. Plus, I have 12 months to stew on which days might work for 2025.

Johnny Marr kicks off in Denver

I have grown to enjoy the Paramount Theatre in downtown Denver. Colorado Springs lacks an old-school theater venue (the Pikes Peak Center is new construction, and the Memorial Auditorium won’t find a champion before it crumbles to dust). For the right band, the Paramount is a perfect rock show space. 

On this night it hosted British band James and Smiths guitarist and all-around likable guy Johnny Marr. Earlier that day, Marr was in the news due to cantankerous old bandmate Morrissey, who blamed Marr for not responding to a nine-figure reunion offer and registering the Smiths trademark in his name. 

In his reply, Marr coolly responded that he could not get a reply from Morrissey’s management so he registered the trademark to avoid any unscrupulous outside from nabbing the Smiths moniker, and that he did respond to the reunion offer, only to turn it down. 

Later that day Morrissey fired his management, and we had the pleasure of seeing Johnny Marr open his tour in Denver. 

First came James, who I only knew through their 1993 single Laid, which was everywhere for about a year three decades ago. Then the band disappeared from the pop culture radar. 

They didn’t dare finish their hour-long set without playing that one, but apparently it stayed on many Denverites’ radars, as every song led to a profuse amount of dancing in the aisles and audience members shouting lyrics. 

In fairness, they had three other singles I missed back in the day – She’s a Star, Sit Down, and Come Home – and all of them made the set. 

They touched on eight albums (Laid was the only one I remembered) but whipped up the crowd and brought some A-level excitement as an opener. 

Johnny Marr has had a peripatetic career since the Smiths, including solo records, a memorable stint in Modest Mouse, a sadly forgotten project from the early 1990s called Electronic, and side man for other musicians. He had been quietly prolific, yet was still celebrated for the Smiths.

For all his jumping around, Marr’s presence always made the work better - his heavily arpeggiated guitar style made We Were Dead Before the Ship Even Sank a post-fame highlight for Modest Mouse. He found room for several notable Smiths songs, and I was glad, since I might never hear them otherwise. 

All six were classics – the overplayed How Soon is Now?, This Charming Man, Panic, The Headmaster Ritual, There is a Light that Never Goes Out, and Please, Please, Please Let Me Get What I Want. 

The last song is closest to me, although I would never turn down the jaunty Panic or the slinking, deceptively complex This Charming Man, which both reveal the versatility of the never-to-reunite Smiths. 

Marr sprinkled in a pair of Electronic songs and a cover of my favorite Iggy Pop song (The Passenger). The other tracks traversed a series of solo albums I never knew existed. 

Marr served as the glue holding everything together. I might not have been attracted to a tour anchored to a latter-day album, but Marr’s career diversity allowed him to bring his signature sound across numerous projects and decades. 

Marr and the increasingly controversial Morrissey will assuredly never meet onstage again, but I couldn’t be happier that Marr keeps the flame going. 

The roof of Nebraska

Agate Fossil Bed fossils and twin buttes 

Buttes west of Fort Robinson

South of Hot Springs, S.D.

Near the Nebraska border

In the west, the road less traveled might come loaded with construction zones. Mine certainly did. If a pilot car is required, expect a 30-minute delay. It’s a good rule of thumb. Don’t expect sympathy from the locals. 

Two trucks with horse trailers passed me while I waited on a red light at a one-lane bridge. Why be a bad driver in an unfamiliar country? I saw no reason. 

Yet I passed them right back – and legally - when I caught up three miles later. When I turned west at Crawford, Nebraska, they went elsewhere. 

The whole reason for the shortcut was a straighter route to a few stops along the way home. After Scottsbluff, I could only count on long stretches of emptiness. A few turns would change that in the upper reaches of Nebraska’s Pine Ridge. So let us never speak of the shortcut again. 

But let us talk a lot about Fort Robinson State Park, which protects a significant site in northwest Nebraska. It is most infamous as the place where Crazy Horse was betrayed and killed. The structures and parade grounds instantly transport visitors to another time. 

A series of rimrocks looms over Fort Robinson to the east. The buildings are neat and in good condition. The fort was active from the 1870s through the 1940s, and eventually the U.S. Defense Department transferred control to the state of Nebraska, and the 20,000-acre site became its largest state park. 

 Instead of the park grounds, I went for the Fort Robinson Museum to get better perspective on what occurred here (beyond killing one of the best known Lakota warriors). The history started at the Indian Wars but extended all the way to World War II. 

The fort had its share of unique traits, including bands of Indians who wintered close to Fort Robinson, and the nearby Red Cloud Agency. Between the world wars, Fort Robinson became the nation’s largest site for U.S Army Remount Services, training for horses, mules, and dogs for the military until the post closed in 1947. 

I couldn’t bring myself to visit the marker where Crazy Horse received his fatal bayonet wound. The whole affair was too sad and emblematic of treatment toward Native people in this country. The Lakota warrior arrived with nearly 1,000 followers under a flag of truce. But the Army intended to take Crazy Horse into custody. When he resisted, he was murdered, bleeding out from a bayonet wound. 

Thinking about Crazy Horse, I found it better to look at the combination of plains and craggy buttes that framed the fort than the historic buildings. The landscape was utterly unique, a different blend of exposed rock than anywhere else on the plains. 

This far northwest in Nebraska, only Harrison remains. After a few short blocks, there are just ranches down to Mitchell, which lies just outside Scottsbluff. Shortly I came upon the lone green thatch in this country, a few small stands of trees in the riparian zone of the Niobrara River. There lies the turn east to Agate Fossil Beds National Monument. 

This time the monument had some summer traffic, albeit much less than the Black Hills bucket-list sites. I saw several families mounting up for the hike to the twin mesas where the fossil beds were excavated. Very few trees lie on the 2-mile loop and having done it in September had no desire to try again in July. 

The Niobrara is more of a wide creek at this point in its journey to meet the Missouri. In many places, the foliage on its banks covers most of the river. 

 I spent more time in the visitor center’s Indian artifact exhibit. James A. Cook not only discovered the fossil beds, but he had some relationships with the local Native tribes. 

 A darkened gallery housed numerous garments, a decorative saddle, weapons, and other items that the tribes gifted to Cook over the years. One of the last photos of Red Cloud taken in his life is also on the wall. Reading about the friendship between James A. Cook and the Indians gave me a spark of hope. 

Here in a land taken by force, friendships could form, healing could occur. Wounds might remain further north, where the Black Hills will remain contentious as long as the Lakota lack a stake. But seeing people for the people they are and culture they represent could help us reach common ground.