Written by Shelli Rottschafer
Photos by Daniel Combs
Today is the day after Thanksgiving. My partner says he wants to, “Go shooting.” I oblige because I understand what he means. He is an outdoor landscape photographer amongst the many things he does, and wants to go, get lost outside with his camera, where we know our dog who follows close behind us, will become red-clay imbedded between his white fur paddocks.
This day we head west on NM64 and then north on 285 which twines itself into Colorado mimicking the curves of the Río Grande and caressing the foothills of San Antonio Mountain. From end to end the highway runs 846 miles, but the segment we will “out and back” is the Sangre de Cristo National Heritage Area. It is part of the Los Caminos Antiguos Scenic Historic Byway. At the intersection of Antonito, Colorado which veers toward Tres Piedras, Nuevo México within the San Luis Valley is where the Taos Plateau extends to the South and East, and is bordered by the Northern section of the Río Grande National Monument. This gorge precipice protects the river rapids below that eventually extend all their way to Texas and the Gulf of Mexico.
Here we take a moment of pause to wind within the Santuario de los Pobladores, a labyrinth next to la Parroquía de Nuestra Virgen de Guadalupe. Conejos’s mission church and parish was founded in 1858. It vies with San Acacio’s iglesia as the oldest church built in Colorado as well as with the Basilica de San Luis in Colorado’s oldest established town in 1851. Each are part of the “Caminante” pathway, where penitent pilgrims are encouraged to walk the stations of the cross.
As I lack that faith, I prefer to adore my cathedral of nature. Walking the labyrinth perhaps is a middle ground. Outdoors I trace the newly plastered adobe. Pobladores – town’s people’s hands molded these bricks with mud and straw from their fields gone fallow. I follow the steps of others and choose the western directional “Joyous Path” as opposed to the southern directional, “Luminous Path” that Daniel takes.
We are the only ones in our contemplation. Perhaps the day before, parishioners had made their way to mass in thanksgiving. Or yet, others living in this area do not celebrate these November days, as many who reside in the pueblos along the Río Grande are of Native American heritage. Yesterday’s Anglicized celebrations with turkey and squash are a reminder that lands were taken under the auspice of living together, and sharing common paths.
Daniel and I meet again in the middle at the santero carved Virgen de Guadalupe. Carved into a Cottonwood trunk, she is intricately cloaked. The wood gleams a centerfold of sun like she first appeared to Juan Diego who was tending his flock of churro sheep on the outskirts of what is now the Districto Federal – Mexico City. Similar to Juan Diego, the pobladores of Antonito were once predominantly sheep herders. This pueblo is a sleepier than sleepy town. The only economically viable businesses are the various Green Dispensaries, the Cumbres & Toltec narrow gauge railroad that runs scenic tours from May to leaf-peeper October, and the Dutch Mill Café that does not serve pigs-in-the-blankets nor pea soup but rather burgers covered in green chile and enchiladas smothered in Christmas.
Daniel and I continue back the way we came, south past the Welcome to Colorful Colorado sign, that is truly colored in neon graffiti tags. Toward the golden “Bienvenido to New Mexico” marker trimmed in red. Our ride is cleaved. South and East – Nuevo México. North and West – Colorado. White sage gone to seed dots arid mesa. Piñón and Juniper creeps in elevation.
This Public Land is a winter Wildlife Viewing Passage for elk, antelope, and mule deer. We see their common path printed upon snow dusted highway edge. Two large female elk did not reach the answer to “Why did they cross to the other side?” Stricken, one hindleg lofted in a frozen wave. The other lay disemboweled, an intestine draped like tinsel on a low lying evergreen branch. The culprit, a black raven atop a nearby fence post with beak turned down warming itself in the afternoon sun.
On Forest Service Road 87 we turn west toward Laguna Larga. Long Lagoon is a prize we do not win. Instead we opt to stretch our feet where it is apparent ranchers had been. Downed barbed wire fence, left to rust. Crushed Coors can losing its silvery sheen. An ashen fire ring with blackened lava rocks rolled out of shape. Tire tracks scar the tender red earth.
Daniel steps out of our car to shoot. Our dog leaps out of the hatch to sniff the cow pies and elk pellets. I take in the horizon. Blue: sky and Daniel’s coat. Red: rocks and my sleeves that shadow my brow from the sun. White: snow dusting and our dog’s Pyrenees fur. It seems we all were made for this moment.
Above Daniel’s lens spots a red hawk swooping over us in curiosity. I point toward San Antonio Mountain, grazing in the foothills is a herd of Prong-horned Antelope. They lift their heads in wonder of how our dog will react. He comes easily toward my call and gracefully lofts himself back into the open hatch, muddy paws and all. A souvenir for later: red-clay prints, blue sky memories, and snow on the horizon.
About the Author
Shelli Rottschafer completed her doctorate from the University of New Mexico in 2005 in Latin American Contemporary Literature. From 2006 until 2023 Rottschafer taught at a small liberal arts college in Grand Rapids, Michigan as a Professor of Spanish. Summer 2023 Shelli returned to graduate school to begin her low residency MFA in Creative Writing at Western Colorado University. She will graduate July 2025 with a concentration in Poetry and additional coursework in Nature Writing.
