Acoma and El Malpais
El Malpais, the badlands. The black river of lava is the defining characteristic of this national monument. The lava flow is 30-40 miles long and 10 to 20 miles wide. Not much is growing on it, and walking on it is perilous and odd. It would shred most animal’s feet very quickly. At the edges of it, there is good ranch land, and to the east the Acoma Reservation, and to the west the Ramah Navajo Reservation have some fine grazing areas. The area is full of old cinder cones, splatter cones where lava makes a fountain and then congeals, and lava tubes that are hollow subways where the molten lava ran off leaving the surrounding cooler lava. I can’t quite get over the sense of all this black rock just sleeping.
We drive up in fitful rain and as we get higher, we can see that the rain of last night was snow up here. It is melting but still shows under trees and on the north side of the roofs. It is nice to see the pine trees again, and the open meadows of the higher altitudes. First stop is a private commercial operation that has a captive cinder caldera and a lava tube that holds a miniature glacier deep under ground. This operation began as a logging camp, with a store and cabins. They still have many of the older log buildings and rusting machinery, and the store sells the usual but also some good trinkets and crafts. We pay our money and climb maybe 300 feet up to the lip of the caldera, looking down into a great funnel of red and gray ash. The path is well done but we are now at 8,000 feet , our bodies are reluctant to go very fast and we have to stop a lot and catch our breath. The rain starts up and then turns to snow, which is very dramatic against the dark wet volcanic material.
On another path, we descend a cobbled together staircase into the lava tube. At the bottom is a pool of yellowing ice, protected from the summer heat by the superior insulation of the lava. The store used to harvest the ice , leaving a partial wall in the back. I guess the ice is interesting, but the weird sharp shapes of the lava all around it are much more so.
15 miles to the west, stands El Morro, also a national monument. This is an imposing prow of a rock wall of golden limestone, softly eroded into vertical columns, and streaked with pastels. It would be a notable landmark on its own, but at its feet lies a pool of water, run off from the rocks above, that is a reliable source of water at all seasons. In this dry land, a miracle. For thousands of years humans have come here, used the water and then felt they needed to record their visit. On the soft limestone we see ancient petro-glyphs of mountain sheep, lizards, shaman figures put there by the ancient Puebloan people. These were the ancestors of the Zuni, who now live to the east and south. Then the Spaniards came and left short descriptions of their missions, and their names in ornate Spanish script. Finally, soldiers and homesteaders carved their names too. In some cases, their names are so well carved that one wonders if the authors studied with a sculptor or at least someone who did the lettering on tombstones. We walk along the base of the cliffs, peering at the inscriptions which dodge in and out of the centuries. A sort of western Rosetta Stone that carries the stories of this area.
It is one of those places that gives me psychic waves, probably because the pool under the great palisade seems like such a precious gift to this near desert. God put the water here, and made sure that people could find it with the golden fence above it. Perhaps the people who needed to record their presence felt this too.
We spent the next day doing a geocaching stint in the area. Some in the downtown area of Grants, where we found sections of nice houses and drove up into the hills to the north of town. Most of our caches were along a road that tuns through Zuni Canyon, a winding series of striped, banded eroded rocks that follow a creek up into the higher terrain. There is a sort of self guided tour, with signs to read about the lumbering operations that used this canyon to bring the pines down and put them on the train for Albuquerque. There are also some defunct saw mills back in town. We leave the main dirt road to venture further into the woods and rough roads. We are high enough to have rain up here, and there is a lot of grass and much evidence of cattle. Twice we came around corners and faced a mudhole that we didn’t dare try without 4 wheel drive, and had to give up on that cache. Another cache we couldn’t find was in a cave made by a lava tube. We crawled in, wondering about other critters in there, and tried to find it, but did not have a good enough flashlight to succeed.
Our big event here is to visit the Acoma Pueblo. This pueblo was built up on the top of a mesa, and very nearly protected its residents from the raiding Spanish. Now there is a road up, but once only a rather tricky path. Like most things on the reservation, we must be guided by a member of the tribe in their vehicle. I remember visiting the Taos Pueblo several years ago and feeling uncomfortable and dispirited by the shabbiness, and by the feeling that they were being a zoo for us for the money. I wanted to see Acoma because it was on the mesa, and hoped that it would be a better experience than Taos.
The road in winds through the villages of Acomita and McCartys where most of the Acoma live. Perhaps I saw an unscientific sample, but they seemed more likely to be houses than shacks or trailers and to have less stuff lying around. The road climbs up over a wide mesa and then down into a big flat grassy plain. In the distance we can see the big, tall mesa of Acoma, other big mesas and a sort of stone henge of yellow rock sentinels. We drive up through these to the new and handsome visitor’s center. The architecture would have stood up well on the Mall in Washington DC or in any city. Elegant, and dignified, it echoed the colors of the mesas and of the traditional buildings of the Acoma. It was certainly a modern building but it is warm and inviting and every detail is a tribute to the culture of the Acoma. Even the sink in the restroom, a slanted piece of limestone that drains into a slot is well done. The architect, from Santa Fee, is good.
We wander the museum, the gift shop and then board a van for the top. The road was actually put in for a movie that was made, forget the title, it is steep but paved and railed in stone. On the top, the houses are almost all a khaki family of colors. Some are the old adobe bricks, with the smoothed layer of mud and straw, the classic southwestern style. Some are stone, and some are clearly made of cement block and stuccoed to resemble the adobe. Some are a little run down and others are new and nice.
The view is impressive. We are 300 feet up in the air with pretty sheer cliffs on all sides. When you are among the buildings, only the rocky uneven streets and walks betray where you are. Near the edge is another matter. The only thing that spoils the view a little is the ring of outhouses and porta potties along the edge. No where else to put them, really. I wonder how the ancient Acoma handled that. Down below we can see the square fields where they grow the standard corn, squash, pumpkins, all dependant on the rain alone. The guide tells us that their beef herds win prizes for meat quality every year.
There are about 100 people who live up here, the council members have to live up here. There is no running water or electricity, and many of the residents are elderly people who prefer the old ways. Unlike the Taos pueblo, there is no trash lying around, although the wind is cleaning up pretty well up here.
Our guide explains the life style and customs with a wry sense of humor. She has told this story too many times and speaks a little too fast and too flatly, but it is a good spiel. In the adobe church we hear about the attempts of the Franciscan priest to convert the Acoma, which really takes off after he manages to fall off the mesa and doesn’t get hurt. The massive church has the thick walls and the dead silence of most mission churches. A big colorful reredos of painted wood is over the altar, there are tired lithographs for the stations of the cross. The Acoma women have painted arched rainbows with corn plants underneath, and a bright pink band of paint along the base of the walls and around the doors.
Our guide explains that they practice both Catholicism and their Pueblo religion together, the best of both. She is clearly an important part of the community. There are ladies selling the Acoma pottery (white with black lines in many patterns), and our guide interacts with them all, asking after a child, arranging to exchange hand-me-downs. The youngest daughter inherits all property in this society, so women are in a position of power.
I don’t have any of the zoo feeling up here. We are allowed to come, and pay well for the chance, but even the pottery sellers don’t seem as needy as I remember the Taos vendors. It is windy and chilly up there in the sky, and I imagine it on a festival day, either Catholic or Acoma, with everyone up here in their festival houses, ready to celebrate. It would be a good place to live.
The Acoma, like most Native Americans, have a big casino with big fancy neon lights and a huge parking lot. I don’t know if that is where the money for the fancy visitor center came from. I think I remember reading that somehow the Acoma have adapted to the modern world better than some tribes. At any rate, it is a wonderful place to visit and see, even in the cold wind. We buy two small pots up on the mesa to remember it.
Now for Navajo country, Monument Valley.
We drive up in fitful rain and as we get higher, we can see that the rain of last night was snow up here. It is melting but still shows under trees and on the north side of the roofs. It is nice to see the pine trees again, and the open meadows of the higher altitudes. First stop is a private commercial operation that has a captive cinder caldera and a lava tube that holds a miniature glacier deep under ground. This operation began as a logging camp, with a store and cabins. They still have many of the older log buildings and rusting machinery, and the store sells the usual but also some good trinkets and crafts. We pay our money and climb maybe 300 feet up to the lip of the caldera, looking down into a great funnel of red and gray ash. The path is well done but we are now at 8,000 feet , our bodies are reluctant to go very fast and we have to stop a lot and catch our breath. The rain starts up and then turns to snow, which is very dramatic against the dark wet volcanic material.
On another path, we descend a cobbled together staircase into the lava tube. At the bottom is a pool of yellowing ice, protected from the summer heat by the superior insulation of the lava. The store used to harvest the ice , leaving a partial wall in the back. I guess the ice is interesting, but the weird sharp shapes of the lava all around it are much more so.
15 miles to the west, stands El Morro, also a national monument. This is an imposing prow of a rock wall of golden limestone, softly eroded into vertical columns, and streaked with pastels. It would be a notable landmark on its own, but at its feet lies a pool of water, run off from the rocks above, that is a reliable source of water at all seasons. In this dry land, a miracle. For thousands of years humans have come here, used the water and then felt they needed to record their visit. On the soft limestone we see ancient petro-glyphs of mountain sheep, lizards, shaman figures put there by the ancient Puebloan people. These were the ancestors of the Zuni, who now live to the east and south. Then the Spaniards came and left short descriptions of their missions, and their names in ornate Spanish script. Finally, soldiers and homesteaders carved their names too. In some cases, their names are so well carved that one wonders if the authors studied with a sculptor or at least someone who did the lettering on tombstones. We walk along the base of the cliffs, peering at the inscriptions which dodge in and out of the centuries. A sort of western Rosetta Stone that carries the stories of this area.
It is one of those places that gives me psychic waves, probably because the pool under the great palisade seems like such a precious gift to this near desert. God put the water here, and made sure that people could find it with the golden fence above it. Perhaps the people who needed to record their presence felt this too.
We spent the next day doing a geocaching stint in the area. Some in the downtown area of Grants, where we found sections of nice houses and drove up into the hills to the north of town. Most of our caches were along a road that tuns through Zuni Canyon, a winding series of striped, banded eroded rocks that follow a creek up into the higher terrain. There is a sort of self guided tour, with signs to read about the lumbering operations that used this canyon to bring the pines down and put them on the train for Albuquerque. There are also some defunct saw mills back in town. We leave the main dirt road to venture further into the woods and rough roads. We are high enough to have rain up here, and there is a lot of grass and much evidence of cattle. Twice we came around corners and faced a mudhole that we didn’t dare try without 4 wheel drive, and had to give up on that cache. Another cache we couldn’t find was in a cave made by a lava tube. We crawled in, wondering about other critters in there, and tried to find it, but did not have a good enough flashlight to succeed.
Our big event here is to visit the Acoma Pueblo. This pueblo was built up on the top of a mesa, and very nearly protected its residents from the raiding Spanish. Now there is a road up, but once only a rather tricky path. Like most things on the reservation, we must be guided by a member of the tribe in their vehicle. I remember visiting the Taos Pueblo several years ago and feeling uncomfortable and dispirited by the shabbiness, and by the feeling that they were being a zoo for us for the money. I wanted to see Acoma because it was on the mesa, and hoped that it would be a better experience than Taos.
The road in winds through the villages of Acomita and McCartys where most of the Acoma live. Perhaps I saw an unscientific sample, but they seemed more likely to be houses than shacks or trailers and to have less stuff lying around. The road climbs up over a wide mesa and then down into a big flat grassy plain. In the distance we can see the big, tall mesa of Acoma, other big mesas and a sort of stone henge of yellow rock sentinels. We drive up through these to the new and handsome visitor’s center. The architecture would have stood up well on the Mall in Washington DC or in any city. Elegant, and dignified, it echoed the colors of the mesas and of the traditional buildings of the Acoma. It was certainly a modern building but it is warm and inviting and every detail is a tribute to the culture of the Acoma. Even the sink in the restroom, a slanted piece of limestone that drains into a slot is well done. The architect, from Santa Fee, is good.
We wander the museum, the gift shop and then board a van for the top. The road was actually put in for a movie that was made, forget the title, it is steep but paved and railed in stone. On the top, the houses are almost all a khaki family of colors. Some are the old adobe bricks, with the smoothed layer of mud and straw, the classic southwestern style. Some are stone, and some are clearly made of cement block and stuccoed to resemble the adobe. Some are a little run down and others are new and nice.
The view is impressive. We are 300 feet up in the air with pretty sheer cliffs on all sides. When you are among the buildings, only the rocky uneven streets and walks betray where you are. Near the edge is another matter. The only thing that spoils the view a little is the ring of outhouses and porta potties along the edge. No where else to put them, really. I wonder how the ancient Acoma handled that. Down below we can see the square fields where they grow the standard corn, squash, pumpkins, all dependant on the rain alone. The guide tells us that their beef herds win prizes for meat quality every year.
There are about 100 people who live up here, the council members have to live up here. There is no running water or electricity, and many of the residents are elderly people who prefer the old ways. Unlike the Taos pueblo, there is no trash lying around, although the wind is cleaning up pretty well up here.
Our guide explains the life style and customs with a wry sense of humor. She has told this story too many times and speaks a little too fast and too flatly, but it is a good spiel. In the adobe church we hear about the attempts of the Franciscan priest to convert the Acoma, which really takes off after he manages to fall off the mesa and doesn’t get hurt. The massive church has the thick walls and the dead silence of most mission churches. A big colorful reredos of painted wood is over the altar, there are tired lithographs for the stations of the cross. The Acoma women have painted arched rainbows with corn plants underneath, and a bright pink band of paint along the base of the walls and around the doors.
Our guide explains that they practice both Catholicism and their Pueblo religion together, the best of both. She is clearly an important part of the community. There are ladies selling the Acoma pottery (white with black lines in many patterns), and our guide interacts with them all, asking after a child, arranging to exchange hand-me-downs. The youngest daughter inherits all property in this society, so women are in a position of power.
I don’t have any of the zoo feeling up here. We are allowed to come, and pay well for the chance, but even the pottery sellers don’t seem as needy as I remember the Taos vendors. It is windy and chilly up there in the sky, and I imagine it on a festival day, either Catholic or Acoma, with everyone up here in their festival houses, ready to celebrate. It would be a good place to live.
The Acoma, like most Native Americans, have a big casino with big fancy neon lights and a huge parking lot. I don’t know if that is where the money for the fancy visitor center came from. I think I remember reading that somehow the Acoma have adapted to the modern world better than some tribes. At any rate, it is a wonderful place to visit and see, even in the cold wind. We buy two small pots up on the mesa to remember it.
Now for Navajo country, Monument Valley.
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