Blessings

We followed the Rio Grande north to Taos. The icy surface reflected the green western cedar and Utah juniper clumps along its western bank as it wound north. Twenty-five miles south of the resort and artist community, a Walgreens sign flashed 20 degrees, but the bright sun with a few puffy clouds made it feel a lot warmer than that. Smoke hung in the valley ahead. "That's Taos beyond the hill," said Andy. "They are probably all burning wood. It's too bad it's so smoky."

I could smell the burning as we followed the river through the rugged sandstone cliffs at least a thousand feet above me on one side. The Rio Grande Gorge twisted black in the distance.

"The only other time we ever drove through Taos was 1974," said Andy. "I don't remember this at all."

San Francisco de Asis adobe mission church, still lined with luminaries outside, allowed no photography inside to protect the hand painted nave and altar. We noticed the slanted ceiling of carved wooden beams. "I wonder if that's for snow removal," mused Andy.

Across the parking lot was Andy's La Fiesta Saloon, quiet on Tuesday morning. "Is that yours?" I teased.

Luminary paper bags outlined the roofs of buildings as we drove through town. What a neat tradition, I thought. "That must be really beautiful all lit on Christmas Eve," I told Andy.

Rio Grande Gorge Bridge is the only crossing in many miles, and it provides spectacular views of the canyon on both sides. With snow wedged between rock crevices, the black canyon and river below contrasted sharply. "Isn't it amazing that little Grande could do all that!" said Andy, as we walked back and forth across the bridge.

Heavy cumulus clouds hugged the peaks as we drove through Carson National Forest toward Chimayo. "It looks like snow," I told Andy, but weather forecasts around Los Alamos predicted sun for the next five days. Snow covered the ground here on both sides of the road at 8,207 feet, and the scenic pullout at 8,470 feet, solid snow-packed ice under foot, was surrounded by snow-covered ponderosa pine trees, their branches still laden with white powder from last week's storm. Just as we descended on Route #76 to Truchas, a healthy looking mountain lion ran across the road in front of the car. I grabbed the camera, spun the dial down for more light and snapped like mad, remembering my lack of success capturing the javelinas in Organ Pipe.

"He's gone," said Andy, slowing Little Red mid-road.

"I still see him, and I think I caught the shot this time," I answered.

Santaurio de Chimayo, built in 1816 by the Abeyta family to replace an earlier chapel on the site, offers healing powers to those who believe. Outside, the statue credits faith in the power of the dirt for the healing of minds and bodies, and each year 30,000 people from around the world make pilgrimages to the small adobe church during Holy Week for blessing and healing.

Brightly painted wooden murals lined chapel walls and nave inside the dark building. In an adjoining room from the altar, the mud walls papered with hundreds of photographs, celebrated the power of the "holy dirt" of Chimayo fame. At least 100 crutches suspended from a metal pole testified to the curing power of the humble church. In the adjoining chamber, labeled "holy dirt room" above the low doorway, a pit in the floor about 18 inches in diameter offered sandy soil and a small trowel for scooping up the curative. Later a skeptical tourist told us, "I visited the holy dirt when I was a young boy and years later as an adult. What I could never justify about the whole thing is why the dirt level never changed. It doesn't go down when people take it all the time!"

Outside hundreds of crosses made of sticks had been tied to the page fence by believers. On the other side of the plaza, shops sold burritos, fruitas and tamales. A sign on a tree said, PIZZA, $2.00 a slice.

It flurried in Nambe, as we drove through the Indian reservation, but after a stop for gas, the skies cleared. It's amazing how fast the weather changes when travelers are surrounded by mountains.