Thinking of Moving to Taos? Be Careful!

Bah! This piece is terrible and pretty dated now. I’d take it down if Google weren’t sending so much traffic here. Go read this instead. It’s funnier and still might get my tires slashed. – JHF

No, we’re not leaving!

But it’s very, very hard for most people to fit in here, and I’d like to address the housing & environmental issues specifically. If you’re very familiar with the place and have actually spent time here, then you don’t need to read any further. Be that as it may…

When we moved here from Maryland in ’99 (with only minimal preparation), the biggest shock to my sensibilities was how wretched and bleak most residential areas were. If you’re used to gardening and need green grass and trees to feel comfy, such a scene is possible in northern New Mexico but difficult to find. THIS IS A DESERT. Things that might be hidden from view by vegetation in a typical Midwestern or Eastern environment sit right out in the open here: whatever your neighbors don’t pick up in the yard, the dead cars, your backyard patio, etc. Nothing is remotely the same as where most outsiders come from. To Easterners, particularly, Taos looks like a disaster area. You either accept this and get on with your life, or you freak out and head back to Massachusetts. It happens much more often than the Chamber of Commerce or local realtors will ever admit. Anyone who’s been here for at least a few years can rattle off a dozen names of friends or acquaintances who just couldn’t take it and headed for warmer, greener pastures. Many leave because of needing a job, which you probably won’t find here. Most successful migrants have three or four part-time jobs. This is the frontier, and there simply aren’t the sort of middle-class professional or administrative positions you might be hoping to find. If you do land one, it’ll pay a third of what it did where you came from. Those are just the facts.

Probably 80 percent of the available houses in Taos, either rental properties or homes for sale, have little or no landscaping, next to zero storage space, no garages or carports, small yards (if any), are not located on paved roads, and almost no one gets his mail at home. They’re all expensive, too.

Where we live now, in a charming but extremely funky old adobe on half an acre on the high mesa overlooking the Talpa and Llano Quemado neighborhoods on the southern end of Taos (also known as Ranchos de Taos), we have outstanding long-distance views. I can see over 90 miles to the horizon from where I open our mailbox, for example. This means a lot to me. We also live on the very edge of where the houses are, so there is little on two sides but sagebrush, piñon, juniper, rolling hills, arroyos, and forested mountains. Along the adjacent acequia, there are gigantic cottonwoods, elms, aspens, and Russian olive trees. We see many different kinds of birds. Elk and deer are nearby. One summer there was even a bear. It’s a glorious place to watch things like red-tailed hawks in a high-altitude mating dance over the valley. I’ve also seen herons, ducks, and a few Canada geese.

But we just don’t have space to work. This house makes a fabulous bachelor pad, and if my wife had left me after moving to Dubuque a few years back, I certainly wouldn’t be talking about moving out! With the two of us, however, it means keeping half our clothes (and a lot of other things) in the $75/month storage unit. Kind of expensive for a closet, especially one that’s 20 minutes away. The real kicker is that the studio she rents next door (wood heat, no water, no bathroom, surrounded by junk) is no proper home for her baby grand piano, which is still in Iowa. Don’t get me wrong: there’s intense beauty all around, even next door, and my wife is very grateful for what she does have, but the buildings won’t do for long-term occupancy. We also can’t garden. It’s simply impossible, unless we were to engage in massive terracing and soil improvement, something that’s difficult for renters to do. And for the last two years, the grasshoppers have wiped out what I did plant close to the house. Some parts of town have grasshopper trouble, some don’t. It makes little sense to me, but here at least, there’s no fighting them. They OWN this mesa.

All that being said, that leaves 20 percent of available houses that are simply to die for, but there’s very little in-between. (Doubtless I exaggerate out of my current frustration, but this is closer to the truth than you might suspect.) Right now my wife and I are hunting hard among that 20 percent, and I’m sure we’ll be successful. After all, we’ve been here long enough to know a lot of people, and we know the neighborhoods. It’s hard, though. Just in the last few days, we’ve checked out half a dozen possibilities that were simply ridiculous. Yes, you can pay a thousand bucks a month here to rent a place that has no closets (literally), no yard, and no safe place to park your car. Amazing, isn’t it?

With all this to deal with, I expect a few comments along the lines of “why the hell don’t you relocate?” Ah, but we did that, and here we are. At some point one just has to get over the idea that moving to another state will solve one’s problems, and besides, I fit in perfectly here in terms of psychology and culture. When we have just a bit more room and a nice space to garden, stepping out on the patio in the bright New Mexico sun will seem like heaven, and that’s the goal. It’s a very harsh environment in many ways, but more powerful than most of you can imagine. That’s what can’t be communicated, although I try sometimes, and the reality of making a domestic go of it here should be seen in light of that.

Still thinking of coming here? If the above didn’t scare you to death, come on down — otherwise, don’t give up your porch swing and your white picket fence…

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