That’s what we call him, “the walker.” He looks to be maybe 35-40 years old, average height, with a trimmed beard and a pretty good belly on him.
My wife and I have been noticing him for the last several years, although I think we used to see him occasionally before then. He’s always on the move, in all kinds of weather, walking along the side of the main road through Taos carrying a backpack. He always wears a hat and frequently marches along looking down at the ground, apparently lost in thought. We’ve watched his wardrobe change through the seasons and over time. Lately his headgear has consisted of a baseball hat with half a dozen long black raven or magpie feathers attached. Sometimes he also has a staff or walking stick.
The thing about this guy, however, is that I almost always see him. I tend not to leave the house all that often, driving into town a couple or three times a week, but when I do go, I see him! And for the last couple of months, it’s always on the same stretch of highway at our end of town, often in the same block. What are the odds of that? Does someone tell him when I’m leaving the house, so he can get himself out there on the road? Of course not! But there he is, almost every single time.
I always notice this kind of synchronicity. It happens all the time, and not just with the walker. I can’t tell you the number of times I’ll see a car coming from the other direction when I drive into town and then encounter the same car on the way back in the exact same spot. It’s maddening, or would be, if I demanded explanation. But there’s definitely a trend: either I’m just noticing these instances more, or they’re increasing in number. In the case of the walker, the scene has also shifted noticeably to our neighborhood. Sightings are more frequent and closer-by.
That’s not all, either. A couple of days ago, my wife and I stood in amazement as a full-grown jackrabbit devoured fallen apricots under the tree less than 20 feet away, seemingly aware of our presence but not running away. The thing is, they just don’t DO that. You city folks also need to know that a grown-up jackrabbit is a startlingly big animal: I joke that they’re the size of a small pony, and that’s not too far off. When they climb a steep hillside, they pull themselves along on all fours in such a way that looks exactly like a little man scrabbling up the slope. It’s uncanny. And they’re very shy. You can hardly ever get near one.
Something is going on, I tell you.
Earlier this year, too, I was taken aback by how brilliant and vibrant all the plants were around our house: the flowers in the garden, the elm trees, the weeds, everything.
Like they were glowing from within.
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We have a walker here in our part of the city, too. I’ve seen him regularly in the decade I’ve lived here. He seemed old when I first saw him, but he does not age, so I have caught up with him. He walks briskly, paying no apparent attention to anything, stringy shoulder-length red hair, bald on top, unkempt beard, wearing too many clothes. I saw him sleeping in the park once, a squad car cruising ominously nearby, and I imagine he now keeps moving to avoid those encounters. You can get busted for sleeping, but not for walking.
His range is two or three miles north and south of my house — I’ve never seen him anywhere else, although at the pace he moves he could easily travel much farther. A couple of times we’ve passed each other on foot, in an alley or a parking lot. He hasn’t spoken to me, though I wanted him to. I’m fearful to start a conversation, afraid to derail him from the track he’s on.
Do you see him 90% of the time you leave your house to go anywhere, and do you see him at almost the exact same spot, no matter what time you go out?
I keep wanting to talk to our walker, but I don’t think I’m supposed to. I’m not even sure anyone else sees him. I mean, we assume they do, but??
For a year or so, I was amazed at how often our paths crossed, the walker’s and mine, and I remarked on it to several people, passengers in my car, none of whom seemed too interested. Maybe they didn’t see him as we drove by. I never thought of that. But I’ve seen him so much over the years that I kind of don’t, anymore.
Regarding the wildlife, in our suburban neighborhood I recently observed two raccoons (25 pounders, they looked like) as they emerged from a flood control hole in the curb and frolicked down my block. Meanwhile, coyotes (!) have made their way 40 miles down the San Gabriel River to live in my town, where they roam at night, catching the cats, eating all but tails and hindquarters. The neighbors are up in arms and having meetings about the supposed menace, but the city animal control people say there’s nothing they can do unless a human is attacked and injured.
I don’t think that will happen on its own, so I suggested that we need a volunteer. I think my neighbors like me well enough, but they don’t always think I’m funny.
Last year – I used to see this Edgar Winter looking dude with uncomman regularity – her wore pink hot pants, sunglasses and no shirt – walking around town – near the Plaza usually – I haven’t seen him at all this year…have you ever seen this guy?
That sounds familiar! Yes, Taos has more than one such “character,” and I think I know whom you’re talking about.
I remember the Edgar Winter dude and there was the guy with the Maori mask and the plaid school-girl skirt. Very cool; very Taos. We’re lucky here on the east coast to have a female walker who we’ve affectionately dubbed “Nancy Walker”.
Unfortunately for ALL OF US, sane and crazy alike walk the streets. I see it here; I saw it en Taos. RIP Ted Kennedy.