The hills of southeast New Mexico are pretty in their own historic and dusty way. Driving up to Lincoln was pleasant, with little traffic. The bike just eats up those two lane roads, and I enjoy feeling it do its magic. The smile never leaves my face.
But New Mexico also teaches that change always occurs, and no place remains the same. The crossing of the Jornado del Muerto was different this time, because the recent rains made the "desert" green. The road is the same (although recently resurfaced) but the greenery completely changed the views and the whole sense of being on the edge of a place where surviving is one of two options.
Likewise, Datil and the San Augustin Plains are changed. The ride (after you get out of Soccorro and their away from their persistent police) and up into the hills remains beautiful and a magnificent ride. The sweeping views are still there, but the towns seem to be dying. From Magdalena through Datil to Pie Town, the closed businesses outnumber those that remain open. Meredith is safe from ever moving to Datil, or any place close, because having been there again, I won't want to live (or die) there. It is beautiful, but depressing at the same time.
I took pictures of the plains, but I don't think they do them justice.
You will note the power lines in the picture. You can not take a picture in the American West without the power lines. The electrical "grid" or infrastructure is everywhere. It supplies power to all of the resource development that has taken place and is taking place. It is truly remarkable. Even the great prairies and grasslands have huge powerlines marching across them. They seem to be even more ubiquitous than the cell phone towers . . .
After realizing you can never go back again (for the umpteenth time this trip) I left Datil and headed up to Pie Town, looking for some pie, and because I had never been there before. BY definition, I couldn't be dissapointed. Well, the only dissapointment was that Pie Town is not a town, or even a junnction, and the pie store was only open three days a week for four hours on those days. I was there on the wrong day, much less the wrong time of day. "There was no joy in Pie Ville, the Mighty Daniel had struck out."
And there were no other services available either. Nor would there be until I got to Quemada. However, the beauty of this high country New Mexico made up for things like no services. You can ride or drive and be nourished by the sights and smells. There are no sounds other thaan nature's sounds when you stop and turn off the engine. Traffic is very light, and so the quiet just dominates. I'm told the country is a hunter's paradise, and people spend gooly sums to come here (if they win the lottery for getting a tag for the area) to hunt elk and deer. I can understand why. Elk sign is all over, from their tracks on the shoulders of the roads to the waste products they leave on the roadway. Yup, elks poop on the highway, friends, just like the bears do in the woods. I think elk do it in the woods too, but I didn't go there to look.
Quemada has a motel and restaurant that was much appreciated. This little crossroads apparently does well becasue it caters to the hunters and fishermen who come to New Mexico for the world class fish and game. But why don't the other little places do as well? Maybe it is Quemada's proximity to Gallup and the east-west freeway that allows it to do better. Regardless, I was really happy to find it at 7:00 p.m., because the nearest campground was another 80 miles away.
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