The Spirit of a Place (and How to Find It)

We’d wanted to return to Cebolla Mesa, a stunning, isolated vastness less half an hour to the north, ever since we first discovered it on New Year’s Day. We’d come upon the place quite by accident, having turned off the main road and launched the truck down a forest service track in search of God knows what. What we found after a winding three-mile ride across the mesa was awesome solitude and silence on a rocky overlook some 600 feet above the Rio Grande.

Beyond the dusty parking area and a group of picnic tables was a scene no suburb could provide. Giant lichen-covered boulders and eroded slabs of rock led to the edge of a frightening precipice and drop-dead vistas, with nary a fence or guardrail to be seen. At the farthest edge of the cliff, away from the trees and out of sight of the parking lot, was an obvious gathering place. Someone had dragged one of the heavy wooden tables at least 200 yards, set it next to a natural depression in the rock face, and built a ring of stones to hold a campfire. What a great spot for a party, I realized. You could do anything there, and someone surely had. It was also an absurdly dangerous spot for a picnic, and I could only shake my head at the wildness and freedom of it all. We poked around a bit, I took a few pictures, and we headed back to the parking lot.

Walking up to the truck, we spotted a trailhead we hadn’t noticed before. According to the sign, it was only a mile or so down to the river. From the top we could see a series of lazy switchbacks descending into the gorge. Mighty tempting, but we’d left the house quite spontaneously and needed tougher shoes and coats. Another time, we vowed.

That was then, and this was now. We both had a free afternoon, the sun was shining, and most of the snow from the previous week’s storm was gone. Why not take that hike? From everything we’d heard, the bottom of the gorge was a very special place: sheltered from the wind and warmed by the sun, the banks of the Rio Grande provide a unique habitat for all kinds of wildlife, including bears, mountain lions, and migratory water birds. I could hardly wait! Besides, local lore had it that secret hot springs and sacred shamanic sites lay quietly hidden among the huge boulders and side canyons. There was more to ponder, too.

For one thing, we’d been told that the entire immense chasm had been created as a result of the cataclysmic collapse of a natural dam holding back a prehistoric inland sea in southern Colorado. Whether this was true or not, we had no idea, though it hardly mattered at the time.

The gorge was in fact extremely narrow and self-contained, with steep walls and few approaches, just as if it had been dug out all at once instead of over time—if you knew the region and the lay of the land to the north, it was easy to imagine such a geological force. There were also numerous reputed paranormal connections to the giant rift valley: UFOs, cattle mutilations, and persistent whispered rumors of mysterious underground military installations. Oh, that gorge.

Not really knowing what to expect, we laced up our hiking boots, grabbed our coats, stuffed snacks and water bottles into the old red L.L.Bean rucksack and jumped into the truck. In short order we were headed north. Once we passed our old home in San Cristobal, we didn’t have far to go: one curve, another, a short dip, and then a long climb to the top of Garrapata Ridge. “Cebolla Mesa, 3 mi.” the sign said, so we hung a left and hit the gravel. My ’87 Ford F-150 is just about perfect for poking around the back roads in this part of the world, and I felt I was in my element.

There was no one else in sight. We cruised easily a short way around a long dry curve and entered the piñon and juniper. Oops! The trees had shaded the road from the winter sun, and the snow lay deep and scary on the shoulders. The road itself was snow-packed and icy, something I hadn’t expected, but we seemed to be fine. “We’ll be out of this soon,” I offered helpfully, knowing that the road would soon slope down and cross the open, sun-drenched terrain leading to the gorge. After a few more turns, we burst out of the woods, cleared a rise, and both screamed out in unison:

As soon as we saw it, we were in it. For as far ahead as we could see, a sinuous ribbon of chocolate-colored goo glistened in the sun. I had no choice about whether or not to take the ruts, either —we were rolling down the hill, splishing and splashing, and I knew there was no turning back. I could feel the suction tugging at the tires, but there was traction of a sort, and at least we were moving forward. As we neared the bottom of the hill, I turned to my wife and said bravely, “Well, we’ll have to build up a good head of steam to get through that section on the way back!” She just shook her head, rolled her eyes, and dug her fingers even deeper into the seat cushion. I knew I was in trouble inside and out, but there was no time for tending to the relationship. We hit a long flat stretch, and the ruts got even deeper.

As it turned out, this was academic. The entire roadbed was the consistency of fresh wet cement, a heavy, granular, bottomless pudding. We slowed alarmingly, rear wheels spinning furiously, and began swinging sideways. In less time than it takes to tell, the truck was 45 to 60 degrees across the road, but still in motion! Ruts were irrelevant as I spun the steering wheel from lock to lock with no effect whatsoever, and there was no way to tell which direction the front wheels were pointed. The astonishing thing was that we were actually making progress: the engine roared, the rear wheels spewed a torrent of slop, and the truck kept moving, nearly sideways, down the road. Ye gods!

This was a totally new experience, and the novelty of it all was oddly calming. I knew I had to turn around and get us out of there, but for the moment there was nothing to do but keep going. On and on we scraped and slithered, at little more than a walking pace. As I sawed the wheel back and forth incredulously, the front tires would momentarily line up with one rut or another, grab, and straighten us out for a second or two before the rear swung out again in the other direction. At one point we were all but perpendicular and still moving. I couldn’t explain it—and still can’t—but the old 2WD Ford soldiered on, blowing bushels of muck all over the sagebrush. What was that strange feeling, I wondered? And then I realized that despite the noise and the adrenaline, I was almost having fun! Here and there were huge pits where other fools had gotten stuck and somehow dug themselves out, but I paid no mind: we at least were sliding down the road, and that was all that counted.

After about a mile of this insanity, the road turned right and crossed a large cattle guard. Eureka, a turn-around spot! I stopped atop the grid and opened the door to lean out and visually orient my front wheels for the first time since we’d hit the mud, then by carefully backing and turning, I positioned the truck for escape. I had to leave the security of the cattle guard for half a length before I could gun the big straight six, but fortunately it worked. With considerable spinning and sliding, the pickup lurched itself in the general direction of the way we had come, and we were on our way back to what passed for civilization—going sideways, of course.

As should be clear by now, we made it—just don’t ask me how. It was every bit as ghastly going the other way, but at least we knew what to expect, and soon I would be a hero. The relief I felt when reaching the pavement was enormous, of course, but tempered by concern for my truck, which had never seen the like. I drove straight for the Questa car wash, where three full cycles failed to clean off all the mud. By then I was exhausted and out of quarters, so we hit the local coffee shop for latte and espresso to celebrate.

What does all this mean, exactly? If we had gotten stuck, our only recourse on the deserted mesa would have been to wait until nightfall when the mud froze up again. By then we might have frozen too, or the tires become solidly encased. Hiking out at 10 degrees, in the dark, without a flashlight, could have saved or killed us, either one. Yet there was no sign, no warning posted, nothing that suggested anyone but suicidal maniacs should not take that road that day. This land belongs to God, you see. Nature rules, and everyone obeys or pays the price.

You can’t dial 911, your cell phone will not work, and even if it did, no one could come to rescue you. Sure, it’s scary, but on the other hand it’s real. The babble of the crowd just covers and distracts. You may feel safer in a world of streets and lawns and sidewalks, but are you? This is the way the world truly is, beneath the civilized veneer. I’ve rarely felt so much alive or wide-awake as in this place, and this is why I came.