This is the first time I’ve posted a second Digital Potlatch offering on the heels of another, and what do you know, two consecutive Horse Fly columns to boot.

I’m jumping the gun here, because I don’t know if this will see the light of day in print. (Here’s a video of the publisher, BTW.) But let’s pretend it’s already out there on the newstands, shall we? This one is about an epiphany of sorts I experienced only yesterday, on a trip over 9,820-foot Bobcat Pass to look for elk, but the real topic is people: Texans, actually, and the surreal town of Red River, high up in the mountains…

Red River Rock

It was a fine day, and something had to be done with it.

My wife wanted to go look for elk on the other side of Bobcat Pass, and that sounded fine. Whenever we do, we never see any elk, but I have a great time formulating ridiculous explanations for why there aren’t any. This is evolving into something of an art form, but I was getting stale, so off we went.

One feature of these excursions is visiting Little Texas in the Mountains, otherwise known as Red River. This always brings back memories of my earlier lives in the Lone Star state, most of which I’d rather forget, except the ones from Austin. Good ole Austin. I was even born in Texas, which probably means I’m eligible for citizenship when they secede again. (I’d rather have a nice New Zealand passport for a second one, but there you go.) Still, we almost always have a good time, especially since we usually stop for something to eat in Red River, and my past and future countrymen do know how to cook a cow.

The drive north was spectacular. We flew up past San Cristobal, where I felt a pang of envy thinking of friends who recently moved there. I would rather live in San Cristobal than anywhere in Taos, as it is another world entirely, a fact driven irrevocably home if you come back from a grocery run to town having forgotten to pick up a gallon of milk. In fact, anywhere much north of Taos puts you in a realm of nature that is the absolutely freaking Real Deal. They do their best to ignore this in Red River but without complete success, and in their failure, they achieve deliverance. How do I know?

There we were in Red River at 6:00 p.m., looking for a place to eat. For some reason, we couldn’t find the place where we once had a decent burger and fries, and I couldn’t remember the name. (“You know, the place that burned down, and then they built another one…”) Yes, it was Texas Red’s Steakhouse, but of course I couldn’t fish that name out of the depths. I saw a sign for “Texas Red’s” on a different building, but it didn’t register. Up and down the main drag we walked, mystified and getting hungrier by the minute. We tried the Bull o’ the Woods Saloon, looking for the holy grail of decent bar food, but the friendly bikers were only drinking, and there wasn’t a pretzel or potato chip in sight. Finally we gave up and went to Texas Red’s.

There was a 20-minute wait time for a table, but the hostess told us we could eat in the bar if we wanted. It was almost peaceful there, despite the loudish music from a country-western duo. They were quite good, however, and I soon fell into the surrealistic atmosphere of country music, a great bartender with better hair than mine, and a silent Star Wars movie I had never seen before playing on the overhead TV. Of course, it quickly dawned on us that we had blundered into the place we’d been looking for all along, the restaurant having moved to a new location. Heh. To top it off, the simple fare was more than good enough, and I left a whopping tip.

But it was the people that impressed me. When we first entered, I thought the flatlanders were oddballs, forgetting that I was the one who didn’t fit in. But standing in the bar listening to the music were a couple of young fathers with toddlers on their shoulders, bouncing up and down. One of the kids wore a big straw cowboy hat and had a pacifier in his mouth. In the lobby, waiting for a table, were hordes of multi-generational family vacationers. The scene was crowded and confusing, but the vibes were friendly, and everyone was mostly calm. I’ll even give you “happy.” Finally, it hit me: most of these folks came from places that were hot as hell and covered with asphalt — just BEING in New Mexico, never mind the incongruity of driving with the AC on at 8,600 feet, was probably a liberating joy. However many places there are in America with thundering freeways and baking parking lots, this wasn’t one of them. These people were in the mountains, whether it meant anything to them or not, and they were better for it.

No, we didn’t see any elk (and I couldn’t figure out why), but a roadside beaver pond was jumping with fish — the last thing I ever expected to find on the other side of a 9,820 foot pass, for sure. On the way back, my wife scored a Vera Bradley bag on sale, and I picked up some fudge. It was 66 degrees, and the sun was still up. Is this a great planet, or what?

(Priorities, chilluns… that’s what it’s all about.)

{ 0 comments }