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Buckhorn

Stepping onto the street in Pinos Altos was like stepping into the scene of an old western movie. It’s as if the tales of the Wild West came to life. Curtains of time rolled back as I stepped into the old saloon. The Buckhorn Saloon had its beginning in the 1860’s. The long bar bore scars from boot spurs and barroom brawls. I could easily imagine seeing my great grandfather and Old Moss sitting at one of the tables scattered throughout the saloon.

You can still get a drink or a sumptuous meal at Buckhorn as you experience the old west. Next door to the saloon is the Opera House that is still used as a performance venue. Musicians from all over play there. Just a walk through the Opera House is a memorable walk past historic photos, paintings and old artifacts.

  • at the bar
  • Opera House
  • Gila Cliff Dwellings

Pinos Altos, meaning “tall pines,” is along the route from Silver City, New Mexico to Sapillo Creek. It is a fascinating drive. The road winds through the Mimbres Mountains, a gorgeous and unique igneous mountain range. Dense forests and deep canyons make the mountains look dark and ominous. In this ancient land of tall mountains, rivers, and high desert, you can still find evidence of the prehistoric Mogollon Indians who made their homes in the cliffs of these mountains. A visit to Gila Cliff Dwellings National Monument allows a fascinating look at their homes and culture. This was also the land of Apache Indians. As settlers moved into the area, big ranch owners brought their own unrest as these cultures clashed. Some of my ancestors called Sapillo Creek home before they left that land of gunslingers and raids on their neighbors’ homes.

  • just prior to fetus being pulled from the doe

Along that same road my family and I witnessed a scene that I warrant have only been seen by a few, other than the rare occurrence caught on film by a wildlife photographer. Just off the side of the road we saw a bear on the other side of a fence. Then we noticed a doe laying under the fence at the feet of the bear. It appeared the doe tried to jump the fence but didn’t make it. Within a few seconds, the bear reached into the doe’s abdomen that had been ripped open and pulled out a fetus as we watched. It’s was unbelievable!

The Mimbres Mountains are still wild and full of undiscovered mysteries.

  • Mimbres Mountains
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Under the Shade Trees

Growing up in the South fifty and sixty years ago was a lot different than it is today. Though I grew up in the south, I didn’t consider myself a Southern girl, even if I sounded like one. My parents were Northwesterners. There were definite cultural differences that were evident in our household, including the food. 

My dad was a preacher, mostly of small country churches. When we had church-wide meals, we ate outside if weather permitted. Some of the churches had tables set up in the church yard just for the meal. Others had concrete tables just waiting for an excuse to be used. Tall trees offered shade for the occasion.

Country church folks took every opportunity to get together. Homecoming and any other occasion warranted a church-wide or community gathering to eat. Ladies brought covered dishes filled with all kinds of food. I bypassed some dishes with no trouble. Turnip greens, collards, black eyed peas cooked in fat back, over-cooked vegetables with bacon grease, cornbread and grits were items that certainly did not tempt me in the least. Now, southern fried chicken and fresh baked pies were a different story! Neighbors and friends talked through the afternoon about their families, crops and jobs. Children ran and played. Laughter was caught up in the breeze.

Up until just a couple of weeks before Daddy died, he still talked about one of the first church gatherings they attended. It seems the ladies talked about what they brought to the meal. One lady said she brought a chocolate cake that “the preacher” just had to try. He went to the end of the table that held the desserts. Where was the chocolate cake? He soon learned what southern ladies considered to be a “chocolate cake.” It was a yellow or white cake with chocolate icing. There was no chocolate cake anywhere under that icing.

Occasionally at one of the churches, especially in the fall, a big pot was set up in the church yard with a fire under it. Parishioners brought ingredients for Brunswick Stew, dumped them in the pot and let the stew cook for hours as they took turns stirring. When it was ready, people got in line with their bowls. They walked away with stew slopping over the sides of their bowls and gathered up a handful of cornbread and had a feast. I never stood in either of those lines! Yes, I did taste it and I didn’t like it. I didn’t like the texture and I sure didn’t like the way it looked. To me, it looked like a meal that had already been eaten once and it sure didn’t appeal to my senses.

Sometimes now when we’re driving down country roads, we might pass a little church with all the doors and windows boarded up. And sometimes off to the side in the church yard is a concrete table leaning unsteadily on broken or sunken legs, the top covered with moss, sticks and leaves. It brings thoughts of years gone by when gatherings under the shade trees were a central part of the community. For just a fleeting moment those memories are recaptured as I see neighbors sharing their lives with one another.

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Holey Socks

Cousin George has holes in his socks. There’s a hole for his foot to go in, and there’s a hole for his big toe to go out. I think my dad bought his socks at the same place because that’s how his socks looked, too. The only difference is, Daddy’s socks weren’t pink. 

Of course, who am I to talk about their socks? In warm weather I don’t wear socks. In cold weather I wear my socks a few times then switch feet so there are two matching toe holes in each sock. Then I have to get new socks. I don’t like my toes hanging out. Daddy didn’t like new socks. He liked his old socks so his big toes could stick out. It was too much trouble to break in a new pair of socks and the holes in his old ones were in just the right place. 

My big toes turn toward the sun and my second toe looks like a camel, too. It’s a family thing!

This is a picture of a pair of my holey socks. I don’t have the heart to throw them away because they are my favorite frog socks.

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Sweet Fragrance

Light streamed through the window as we crowded into the little room.  The figure in the hospital bed lay contorted from a body ravaged by sickness.  His head fell to one side, chin pressed to his shoulder, his mouth opened and twisted. With eyes immovable, his stare was fixed on the foot of his bed.  His bride of untold years sat by his side.

As voices were raised in song of declaration of God’s grace, the woman lovingly took his hand. She gently stroked it as tears streamed down her face. Her voice could be heard mingling with the others.  It was strong and confident.  She knew his remaining time was short.  She anticipated his last breath at any time.  

As I watched her, I wondered what she saw.  Did she see a twisted man with life fading away?  Did she see a strong handsome young man from days long gone? Did she relive the moment she met him? Did she remember that moment when her heart flipped, and she thought she would love him forever?  Did she envision their wedding day or his face when he held their child for the first time?  It’s almost as if she was trying to gather time in her arms and hold it tight so it could not escape, daring the memories to fade.   

Her tears fell unashamedly as she lifted his hand slightly, lowering her head to give it a tender kiss.  I thought my heart might stop as I witnessed the scene.  The twisted man I saw was the object of a woman’s love and devotion. Somehow, the room appeared even brighter.  As we prepared to leave, we all held hands.  I stepped forward and took the hand she had kissed through her tears. I was surprised that he gripped my hand while he slowly moved his other hand toward hers.  No other visible emotion or movement escaped him.  His hand was soft and warm.  Life could still be felt pulsing through his veins.  As I closed my eyes, the smell of disinfectant and distinct odors that had followed us into the room were snuffed out. I noticed a sweet fragrance.  I knew it must be the perfume of the lady who sat within my reach, but maybe it was the fragrance of her love mingled with the sweet aroma from the prayers that were being lifted to the heavens.   Time is indeed short.  We cannot hold it tight for it will slip right through our fingers like sand in an hourglass.   

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Four Wheeling

Hang on! We’re off! I gave the girls a few days to acclimatize before we headed to the mountains. Finally! They were going to see a place I had told them about for almost 30 years that I don’t think they even believe existed.

Cousin George agreed to take us up in his truck since we didn’t know how the river crossings would be. We met at the ranch, climbed in the truck and headed up the canyon. The girls were amazed at the views and I think a bit overwhelmed. It’s different being in the heart of the mountains than seeing them at a distance. That was the most wilderness they had ever seen. We had to open gates, ford creeks, and dodge rocks along our trail. We crossed the rocky flats and pulled into the yard at the old home place. Cousin George unloaded the four-wheeler and we grabbed our picnic lunch out of the back.

I gave the girls a tour of the buildings, many of which were collapsed, and told them the significance and history of each. They drank from the eternal spring that I call, “the fountain of youth,” which is the best water in the world. We had our picnic in the cozy bunkhouse close to the woodstove that had already warmed up the place. 

The weather had not cooperated but that didn’t dampen our spirits. After lunch we jumped on the four-wheeler. Of course, I was the driver. The girls climbed on the back. They were layered in clothes but I think they discovered they could have used a few more. Since it was raining off and on, we put on our thin ponchos. We looked quite a sight! Those girls have traveled with me a few times. We’ve ziplined, driven Segway’s, kayaked, thrown axes, flown in planes, ridden on boats, rode horses, forded creeks, ridden on buses and other fun adventures. Having done all those things, a four- wheeler ride didn’t intimidate them at all. 

The temperature had dropped quite a bit from the time we left town. It was chilly. No, it was cold. I failed to bring my gloves, so pulled my extra long sleeves over my hands to use as gloves. Off we went up the trail peppered by mist and occasional rain. There were a few puddles along the way. I revved the motor just like I was trying to pop a wheelie. When I saw a good puddle, I just happened to speed up a bit and hit it just right to make a good splash. We jumped over rocks, dodged roots, stopped and pondered the best route around obstacles in our path, and went as far as we could before having to turn around. On the way back, I stopped above the lake. The grass in the meadow was tall and green. Though the rain and clouds shrouded the view of the mountains, the lake still shimmered. Ripples danced on the water as raindrops pelted the surface. It was still a glorious day.

The girls gasped when I pulled off the wilderness road into the tall wet grass. They have traveled we me enough to know that whatever I’m driving has a mind of its own and always manages to go off road. We were pretty much off road anyway. I could not resist riding through the mountain grass and wildflowers to give them a closer view of the lake below. Besides, it’s a tradition to take a photo at the old hay rake. When we were sufficiently wet, we headed back to the bunkhouse to thaw out a bit before heading back to town.

Knowing the river wasn’t too high for me to cross in our four-wheel drive, we knew we would return to the mountains in a couple of days for another adventure with a picnic and bears!