Highway 64 between Clayton and Taos is one bumpy road. I did see several herds of Antelope, a big herd of buffalo, a gathering of elk at a watering hole, I also experienced one of those moments of spiritual serendipity which keep me on my forward path.
What happened is that the relentless bumping along the road into and out of the Clayton dinosaur tracks site had, unknown to me, loosened my right-side trailer spotting mirror. The thing was attached by suction, which I’d forgotten to check. Something I usually do every morning as part of my routine before heading out: Right lights? Check. Left lights? Check. Brake lights. Good. Hitch secure? Okay. Chains tight and not dragging? Excellent. Tire pressure on both vehicle’s correct? Okay. And then… the one I forgot—both side mirror extensions on tight? Apparently not.
So, I’m driving along after an hour and a half on poorly-maintained Highway 64. More bumping and jolting, when all of a sudden, my right spotting mirror flies off. I see its shiny surface as it leaves Durga, airborne the few moments before shattering.
I stop.
I know it’s destroyed even as I walk back to the splinters and broken fins of metal that once helped me see whatever is beside and behind me.
It’s Easter Sunday, I’m on a rural highway slowly climbing to 8000 feet along the Eastern side of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, with only two small towns between me and Taos.
The good news is that there is very little traffic, only an occasional semi or local pickup zooming by my 40 mph ascent. A speed which, while as fast as I choose to go when towing uphill, affords me excellent views of the volcanic mesas to my right and left.
About 30 miles later, I cross the bridge over the Canadian River (the longest tributary of the Arkansas River in the U.S.) into Raton, 
a town of about 6500 souls, who from the look of things, are not the wealthy immigrants who now inhabit Santa Fe and Taos.
But lo! There, just ahead on my right, I see something I have not seen on my trip since Florida. An auto parts shop. And it’s open!
Happy Easter, indeed.
A half hour later, I’m back on the road, new and improved spotting mirror attached, ready to take on the Palo Flechado Pass, 9,109 feet.
But first, I pass the Whittington Center,
national headquarters of the NRA, tucked away quietly along this little traveled byway.
It’s quite a spread, funded clearly by some very deep pockets, marketed as “America’s Premier Shooting Facility.”
More than 33,000 acres host 25 shooting ranges catering to “any kind of discipline.”
I do not stop.
However, when a while later I come upon Cimarron, I do.
The name is vaguely familiar from old movies of my childhood. I have to stop.
Cimarron was a major stage stop along the Santa Fe Trail, boasting 16 saloons and 4 hotels Thought of by many as “the heart of the West,” it is known for its lawlessness. 
The Maxwell House Saloon and Inn was a particularly wild stopping place, attracting colorful figures such as Annie Oakley, Buffalo Bill Cody, Kit Carson, Wyatt Earp, Black Jack Ketchum, Jesse James, and more.
The notorious gunman, Clay Allison, and his gang of cowboys, terrorized Cimarron throughout 1870, shooting out lampposts, riding drunkenly through town at a gallop, or forcing newcomers to “dance” by shooting bullets at their feet, a fact Hollywood used to great effect in several movies.
No such shenanigans seemed to be going on as I pass through, though I do spot a group of local boys kicking the crap out of a soccer ball behind the church.
Out of the town of Cimarron and into beautiful Cimarron Canyon, climbing, ever climbing, while following the pretty little Cimarron River, known for world class trout fishing and the 400 foot tall granite formations called the Cimarron Palisades.
The highway is little more than two narrow lanes, winding around hair pin turns, as it climbs steadily. Many of the turns were posted 20mph, which is fine by me because that is about the speed I am able to muster.
Then, I reach the top and Eagle Nest,
a tiny little village along the shore of Eagle Nest Lake, a haven for fishermen and women.
It is also the gateway to what has been dubbed “the enchanted circle,” which is the 84 mile scenic drive through the mountains which starts and ends in Taos.
If I thought the highway through the Cimarron Canyon was challenging, I have my opinion adjusted as the enchanted circle climbs, twists, and bends back upon itself all the way to the top of that 9,109 foot pass.
I pass Angle Fire Ski Resort, which has been dubbed as a ski resort for nature lovers rather than show boaters. 
What this means is that Angel Fire lacks the showy attractions of Tahoe and Aspen, emphasizing instead the beauty of the mountains and the athleticism required to recreate there.
And the nerve to drive that road in the winter, I think, as I negotiate my way around very treacherous curves which could easily be deadly when under snow.
But at last, I arrive in Taos, 6,967 feet above sea level, on a beautiful but cold day. 
A place where I will un-hook Pearl for a week of scenic exploration.
First Day, Rio Grande Bridge
The Rio Grande Bridge, at 700 feet, is the seventh highest in the US Highway system. It is a steel deck arch bridge with views down which literally took my breath away. 
Mostly because I was experiencing a day of elevation adjustment, which included light headedness and extreme fatigue. But as I walked across that bridge, feeling it sway in the wind beneath me, I became sobered by the 3 emergency call phones on each side. 
Rio Grande Bridge is the site of more than 350 suicides since it was built in 1965. These call boxes are an attempt at prevention.
As I looked down at the river far below, I felt a dizzy rush of accumulated psychic pain overtake me. Not vertigo, something very different.
I said a prayer for the lost souls who chose this for their avenue of passage. And then I had to get off that bridge. I just couldn’t take it.
As I stepped back onto terra firmer, I noticed a lone bighorn standing sentinel on the rocks to the north. 
It eyed me then walked with purpose toward an almost hidden trail at the edge of the cliff. A trail leading down to where 350 ghosts now live.
Day Two, Taos Pueblo
The people of Taos Pueblo have been in this area since before Columbus colonized the country.
Their language, Tiwa, is spoken not written, and due to traditions within their religion, the people do not divulge their history.
The Taos Pueblo is believed to have been constructed between 1000 and 1500 AD. It has been continuously occupied with the adobe structure being added to and repaired throughout the years.
It is said that 150 people live within the walls of the now UNESCO World Heritage Site, 
living traditionally, as they’ve always done, without electricity or running water, protecting and carrying on their culture.
I did not see anything like that number of people. Most of the individual dwellings appeared shuttered and locked up. 
About a dozen of the homes have been converted to galleries and shops and I had interesting conversations with several of the proprietors.
One man, upon learning I was from Oregon, shared how he’d been a fire fighter there in the 1980’s. He thinks Oregon beautiful but “too cold.” He also shared that he’d appeared in a Kenny Rogers movie 
as one of a band of Indian warriors who hunt the whites. He was cast because he is an excellent rider.
We both laughed at the idea that he was depicted as a killer when in reality, he is an artist with an artist’s soul. He sure did like Kenny Rogers, though.
“The man had a good heart,” he said, “you could feel it. Not like old Iron Eyes Cody. He came here when I was young. He pulled up in a big limousine, got out, did a photo shoot with us kids, then got back in his car and drove away. He sure had good boots, though. All beaded. I remember those boots.”
I later found this old file photo. Apparently the man liked him some boots.
A woman in another shop and I discussed eating venison. This was after I complimented the sculpture of a deer hanging on her wall. She told me she loved venison but that there just weren’t any more deer around the village. Which I thought curious given it’s right up at the base of the mountains.
“Oh, I think the cattle keep them away,” she told me, “Or the owners of the cattle. Hard to say. But we don’t see any deer anymore where I grew up.”
I giggled as I recounted sneaking into our family kitchen after everyone was in bed to steal a piece of the jerky my step-father made out of the ends and odd pieces. “I loved that jerky,” I said..
“We all love that jerky,” she joined in my laughter, “it’s the best part.”
There were few people at the pueblo while I was there. I only saw two other couples.
“It will get crowded by this afternoon,” she said. “it’s good you came in the morning when it’s quiet. The groups come, then it gets loud.”
I told her I’d stopped on the foot bridge to listen in the quiet as the river sang.
“It was so melodic,” I added, feeling a bit foolish about the description. Sshe understood.
“I like to listen to the river sing in the evening when everyone has gone away,” she shared. “It is so peaceful then. The river sounds the happiest then.”
I found out later that the river is actually named Red Willow Creek and these are the Red Willow people. 
The creek is the source of drinking water for those who live in the Pueblo. It flows out of the Blue Lake, a sacred lake closer to the mountain.
I strolled around, taking a couple of pictures.
I was taken by the drainage system on the roofs. Rainwater funneled down from level to level, then into rain barrels below. 
That water is used for the gardens, where the people grow corn, squash, and beans–the sacred three.
Hornos Ovens. 
A fire is built inside until the oven becomes red hot, then the ashes and embers are scraped out, the bread dough placed onto the sides of the oven, the little door closed. The break bakes nicely.
Already the chill of the early morning was being replaced by a dry, desert heat. I began to imagin how hot it would become in the summers.
It was cool, though, inside the St. Jerome Church. 
I paid my dollar for a white candle, said a blessing, placed it into the sand. Then sat in a pew to study the artwork and construction.
Built in 1850 after the original church, built in 1619, burned down, it is a modest church with fine hand carved wooden beams and choir loft.
That Virgin Mary in the center, along with several santos, were brought by early Spanish missionaries. I sat in the peace and the silence, offered up a prayer for the healing of our planet.
When I exited, I overheard a young woman guide tell the two couples I’d seen that the Catholic faith had been forced on them but they’d come to terms with it. She didn’t feel it took anything away from their own religious practices, which they upheld even while living as Catholics.
As I was leaving the grounds of Taos Pueblo, I thought about how this one, small corner of the area has been preserved for the original inhabitants.
I thought about how tourist dollars and the tiny casino built on their land are meant to be compensation. I looked at the modest adobe homes and trailers which the people not living within the pueblo itself but on land ceded back to the tribe live in.
Such as this one.
And I felt shame at the number of multi-million dollar “Southwest Style” homes and ranchos and casitas scattered throughout the valley. 
Inhabited by well-heeled, sheepskin coated, micro-dermed transplants, mainly from the east coast, according to accents I overheard in several places outside the pueblo.
NOT the pueblo
Taos is known as a haven for artists. Only a small number of which seem to be indigenous.
It’s a curious world we inhabit.