White Water Rafting: Just One Reason We Settled Here

My first white water experience was over 20 years ago on the Middle Fork of the Salmon River, just outside Salmon, Idaho.  It was a short half-day trip that launched just outside town and followed the river along some Class I and II rapids, but culminating in a wonderful Class III+ rapid where everyone got wet and then we pulled out of the river.

Five years later, I was invited to go on a trip down the Wild and Scenic Wilderness section of the Chama River in Northern New Mexico.  I was hooked!  

A View from Alongside the Rio Chama by Brad Malone

Shortly after moving to New Mexico permanently in 2005, Michael and I were invited on a trip down the Chama in mid-April.  Spring weather being what it is in Northern New Mexico, we started out on a beautiful sunny day, set up camp alongside the river as the skies turned overcast and woke up the next morning with about 8" of snow on the ground.

Being old hands at back-country camping, Michael and I had the right clothing and the right tent and sleeping bags.  The friends who had invited us along for this first trip had all the rest of the gear, including a portable kitchen and shelter for breakfast.  

That first morning alongside the Rio Chama, high in the back country, Michael sprung a surprise on our hosts.  He produced all the ingredients for an amazing gourmet breakfast and then proceeded to shoo us all away while he made blueberry buttermilk pancakes, bacon and sausage, along with fresh fruits and juices.  I was jokingly told by one friend that Michael would always be welcome on their white water trips, but I was another story.  Only after I completely cleaned up and put everything away did I earn my right to future invitations.

Since that time, we've spent a lot of time on the Chama River.  If you want an extended white water adventure, that is one of the destinations you can book from the outfitters here in Taos.  The drive over to the "put-in" is about an hour west of us.  The river flows south through an ever-deepening canyon that becomes a gorge lined with sandstone walls.  After about 30 miles or so, you suddenly come upon the amazing Christ of the Desert Monastery, a Benedictine enclave alongside the river (and the subject of a future discussion in this blog).

Walls of the Piedre Lumbre by Brad Malone

 At the Monastery, the walls of the canyon begin to open up dramatically into what is now commonly called "O'Keefe Country" where Georgia O'Keefe lived and painted for so many years in the 20th Century.  Layers of red, orange, yellow and even green stone shine above the plain where the Chama River forms Class II and III rapids.

Skull Bridge Rapid on the Rio Chama by Brad Malone

 In my next entry, I'll write about the Taos Box along the Rio Grande and the trips you can take on that white water as part of the Adventure Package La Posada de Taos is offering this year.

Taos Pueblo: Spiritual Center

These entries are intended as an introduction to Taos for those who are preparing to visit us at La Posada de Taos.  It is my hope that others will take interest and begin the journey to learn and understand about this unique place.

I'm writing about a place in the Hinterland where history stretches as far back as time itself and where its peoples have helped shape the destiny of our great nation in ways that are unknown to most.  It's the story of the Taos Pueblo and of towering historical icons such as Kit Carson.  If I were to write the story of America's Conquest of the West, the story of Taos would be inextricably woven into each chapter. 

Starting with the Taos Pueblo -- the oldest continually inhabited place in our country.  I've always wondered how it is that the Taos were never forcibly relocated from the ancestral home as were so many other Native Americans.   Why has this place somehow been continuously inhabited -- never destroyed or abandoned.  It is a fundamental piece of the story of what makes Taos so incredibly special, not just to those of us who live here, but to our entire national identity.  Here's why:

When I visit the Taos Pueblo with its 1000-year old dwellings, I think about all the storms it has weathered -- both literally and figuratively.  In the context of American expansionism in the 19th Century and the brutality we inflicted on so many tribes, it seems miraculous that this place has remained intact much as it has always been.

Perhaps it's as simple as the fact that the Taos were already settled in place when the Spanish arrived not long after 1500.  They were not nomadic as were so many other Native Americans who we forcibly removed from their lands and pushed into remote and desolate reservations.  They had an architecturally complex and unique home and were farmers and traders.  The Navajo Nation, on the other hand, were "enemies" because they would not settle down or remain in place as the American Government insisted was necessary for peaceful coexistence. 

Another reason that the Taos have survived "in place" is that they have continuously and closely observed their religious and cultural traditions passed down from time immemorial.   From the time the Spanish arrived almost 500 years ago, the Taos were a close-knit community bound together by their complex religious ceremonies.  It is completely my opinion, but some measure of respect for these traditions has always overcome efforts to destroy the Taos culture.

More likely than maintaining religious freedom is the fact that when Spanish Catholics arrived to spread the Gospel, the Taos were receptive to the New Testament story because it so closely resembled some of their own oral histories.  I suppose one could say that over time the two religious systems came to a form of detente where major observances were held simultaneously or within close time-frames to one another.  Thus, today Taos Pueblo celebrates the 2-day ceremony of San Geronimo with Catholic Vespers every September 29 and completely Native traditions on September 30.

But peace has not always been the status quo.  The Pueblo Revolt in the 1600's saw the violent rejection of all things Spanish and Catholic in New Mexico.  The Taos participated from the beginning of the Revolt and saw it to the bitter end. Although I'm not trying to dismiss the importance of these years of violence and struggle in the history of the Taos people, it seems to me that when the Spanish returned, it was with a better understanding of the importance of allowing the Taos their Native religious traditions.

The Taos have also been the victims of repeated efforts to take their ancestral lands away from them.  Fraud and deception sometimes resulted in the loss of lands to an amazing array of people who history does not smile upon.  The Taos have had to work to retain their lands and to protect themselves from being overrun by those who want to claim this place as their own.

The Taos have had to struggle against the U.S. Government's blatant land grab in the guise of "preserving" natural resources.  When Congress created the Kit Carson National Forest in the Teddy Roosevelt Era, it carved out ancestral lands of the Taos containing their most sacred place -- Blue Lake. 

Problem was that the boundaries of the ancestral lands of the Taos had been recognized by the Spanish long before the United States laid claim to the New Mexico Territory.  The Treaty of Guadalupe-Hidalgo stipulated that the American government would honor the land and water rights granted by the King of Spain.  Depriving the Taos of control over the lands containing Blue Lake can be equated with forcibly relocating them from their homes.

After years of legal efforts, however, Congress and President Richard Nixon finally returned the disputed lands to the control of the Taos Pueblo.  It was the first time in this nation's history that the U.S. Government had given back lands it had taken from a Native American tribe.  In fact, the peaceful triumph of the Taos in these efforts is credited with beginning a new wave of legal and civil rights efforts on behalf of Native Americans across the United States.

Next:  Taos Mountain

Why Taos?

Many of my high school and college friends as well as many of my former business and law school colleagues have asked me how I ended up in Taos -- or rather WHY TAOS?  People who knew me in my "previous life" knew me as a driven individual.  I suppose most of my family and friends expected something other than being an Innkeeper.  Without a doubt, however, I have come to realize that Taos is my home and that this place was patiently waiting while I chased my tail elsewhere.

To quickly summarize, I chased my future career all the time.  After getting a Bachelors and Masters from Trinity University in San Antonio, I went to work for the Air Force who sent me to New Mexico in 1986 for procurement training at Kirtland AFB.  Never happy with what I had, I moved to Dallas where I continued to chase an elusive future of "happiness."  I eventually went back to school and got a law degree, even getting published along the way (See page "x" for the title of my paper).

Even after my career took me away from the Air Force, I kept coming back to New Mexico.  My stories posted to this blog from 2007 tell the story of one ill-fated trip down the Chama River in 1995.  But there were lots of other trips.  Climbing the La Luz Trail outside Albuquerque, visiting the Gila Cliff Dwellings, White Sands, and even doing that almost impossible drive into Dog Canyon at Guadalupe Mountains National Park and then spending a few days and nights far, far away from anything but nature.

When I went back to work I'd always have a smile on my face.  Co-workers would ask, "What are smiling about?" Describing New Mexico and telling stories of my adventures here would only puzzle people in Dallas.  "You did what?  White-water what? Cliff Dwellings?  What hotel did you stay in?  Where did you eat?" were common questions that frankly I came to understand had no real answer for those who had to ask.

I now look back on all those years as preparation for Taos.  When guests at La Posada de Taos ask me the question of why I came to Taos, I often jokingly tell them that Taos is a great place to have a mid-life crisis.  I guess that means that Taos is my Corvette?

After years of chasing the dollar and pursuing a career track to the heart attack, I began to realize that maybe I was allowed to define success and happiness for myself.  In fact, I eventually understood that I would never be happy if my success was always going to be defined by how much money I made, what kind of car I drove, whether my teeth were perfectly straight, what neighborhood I lived in and whether I got my hair cut at the top-ranked men's barber in Dallas, Texas (which I did, go figure).

Too bad it took me 17 years to figure that out.

I understand now that those years of being detached from the place where my bliss resides were probably necessary for me to enjoy the life I now have.  Instead of spending an hour or two driving to work each way every day sitting in traffic watching bumpers, I now walk down a flight of stairs open the back door and take a long look at the mountain above town.  Instead of being pulled in a hundred different directions  to solve problems that were primarily the product of work-making inventions, I'm pulled away to help someone make reservations for a balloon ride or a white-water rafting trip.  Best of all, instead of receiving dozens of phone calls and e-mails that took a staff of administrative assistants to help me sift through, I now take every call myself and answer every e-mail personally in an effort to help people come to Taos and have a great time.

Although I intend to get active and be a citizen of Taos through various volunteer efforts, I've also had time to settle in and do things that feed my soul.   I've repaired and maintained a pond complete with fish and water lilly.  I've grown a large vegetable garden that produced a bounty for La Posada's chefs (see pages 3 and 4) to use all summer and early fall.  I've ridden down the Taos Box of the Rio Grande just outside town and have sped through walls of white water for no other reason but to make it to the other side.  I've been on the lifts and the slopes (bunny only) of one of the world's most challenging ski mountains and lived to tell about it.

Most of all, I've allowed myself to finally find my own measures of success and happiness in ways that have added years back to my life.

A Fish Pond Complete with Water Lilly Was One of My First Taos Projects

By the time I left the Big D, little A, double L, A, S, my blood pressure was already through the roof and out of control.  My skin was pale and I felt sick most of the time.  By the time I reached New Mexico almost six years ago, my hair had turned mostly gray and the circles under my eyes had become a permanent scar -- or so I thought.

Here at 7000 feet in Taos, I smile each morning as I drink my cup of coffee and watch the sun rise to light up Taos Mountain a few miles off my back balcony.  My Facebook friends from years back remark that they see the change in my face.  (I always thank them.)

The life returned to my soul when I came to Taos and for that I am thankful every day.

Growing a Large Vegetable Garden at La Posada de Taos was my "Zen 2010."

Taos is a lifestyle, but it's also a place where my soul can take the spiritual journey it has longed for.  Stay tuned. . .

Chama Rama, Part III

As the sun set over the west rim of the Chama Canyon that late May evening, we all were a mess. Tracy, having almost drowned, was now smiling more than anyone. She was undoubtedly happy to be alive.

Attention turned to me and what we were going to do about whatever was in my knee. Various attempts to pull the thing out with tweezers were unsuccessful. It was firmly lodged in there, just out of sight. I still had full range of motion in my knee and had already resolved myself to somehow walk out of there early the next morning and begin searching for a road. Infection was my number one concern. If we went on downstream, it would be another day or two before we would be able to reach a hospital. That just wasn't going to happen if I could help it.

The group met and decided to cancel the remainder of the float down the canyon. A plan was made: first thing in the morning two people would climb out of the canyon just above our camp and hike back to the cars parked at the put-in point. No one was sure how far that would be, but they figured it was at least a ten mile walk. They would return with cars and be met by the rest of the group who would have by that time packed all the gear and carried up and out of the canyon. The entire plan rested on a road being found somewhere nearby at the top of the rim.

Someone had brought along a bottle of single malt scotch to celebrate our completion of the run down the canyon. Being the well-healed alcoholic aficionado that I was, I totally bought into the "get 'em drunk to fix 'em up" myth. The fine scotch was broken open and immediately served to me first. After getting me sufficiently buzzed, another attempt was made to grab that stick in my knee, but it failed. It was simply too far down under the skin to reach.

As morning broke, Kip and Jenny departed on their mission. The raft and kayaks were deflated, all the gear was prepared for removal and we began the arduous task of moving hundreds of pounds of gear up a steep mountainside. It was decided that if I was good for a single trip up and out of the canyon, I could also move something while I was underway. The deflated raft weighed more than any single thing, so I volunteered to help move it up.

Others in the group had to make several trips each up and down the canyon wall to move every last thing we had brought. It took most of the morning to complete this task. By the time the last of the items were being moved, Jenny and Kip returned, led us to the two cars they had retrieved, and off I went to my next adventure -- the ER in Tierra Amarilla, New Mexico.

When we arrived I was surprised at the facility. Although it was small, it appeared to be well kept and professionally run. I was almost immediately escorted into an ER. Kip and Jenny were allowed to stay with me, and we tried to keep the atmosphere light while the doctor was performing a procedure on a patient about ten feet away in the open ER. Turns out the other patient was an ambulance driver who had torn ligaments in his knee on a run earlier in the day.

"TWO knee cases!" The Doctor exclaimed. "Guess knees are the popular thing."

After I explained the situation and told the doctor that the injury had happened almost 24 hours before, he shook his head and tried what we had been trying to do from the beginning -- pull the damned thing out. As he leaned over and inserted a surgical instrument into the opening, I suddenly realized that he looked very familiar. Very, very familiar. I couldn't place it and I didn't want to talk to him while he had a metal instrument stuck into my knee, so I watched and tried to recall. Nothing!

He too was unsuccessful with his first approach. "OK," he said, "let's try something else. Looks like that thing is jammed in there, so I need to get a good look at it. Mind if I take some pictures?"

"You mean x-rays?" I asked.

"Yep."

"Sure."

"It'll help me see what I'm up against. If I can pull it out, I'll do that, otherwise we're going to have to cut it out" the doctor concluded.

X-rays were taken and the doctor showed them to me. The stick had bent around all the vital tendons and ligaments without damaging any of them. But it was bent down and had a small protrusion that had already been snugly sealed during our 24-hour wait. "We're going to have to cut it out."

The doc left momentarily and came back with a bottle of gas and a mask that fit around my nose and mouth. "Breathe in deeply for a while," he said. It was laughing gas. "This will help me get you ready. By the way, are you really into your looks?"

"What?" I asked as the gas began to take effect.

"Well, I'm really going to screw this pretty knee up. It's going to look like hell."

"Who cares?" I chuckled. The gas was working.

Suddenly I recognized who the doctor looked like. "Hey! I know you! You're Jerry Garcia! The Grateful Dead, right?"

The doctor looked at me, laughed and turned around to deal with his other knee patient.

Time stopped, sped up and stopped again while I waited. The doctor warned me not to watch while he worked. I didn't. Still, he had to have Kip, Jenny and the ambulance driver hold me down on the bed as he administered anesthesia and thereafter surgically removed an inch-and-a-half long piece of tree buried in me.

The day-old nature of the injury meant that the wound had to be left open. No stitches today. After waiting to make sure that I didn't have any negative side-effects from the anesthesia, he led me into a large closet that doubled as the pharmacy, gave me antibiotics and pain medications and discharged me.

As I left the hospital that day, feeling no pain whatsoever, I had two things on my mind: (1) Jerry Garcia of the Grateful Dead -- the doctor -- was amazing because he was EVERYTHING: the doctor, the radiologist, the anesthesiologist, the pharmacist, the nurse, the surgeon and a great musician and entertainer; and (2) when I went to the payment window at check-out the TOTAL bill was $180. Although the hospital could not take or file my insurance, they were surprised when I took out my credit card and asked if they would take it.

"Yes, we take credit cards. How much do you want to pay?"

"The whole thing, I guess."

"The WHOLE thing, really?"

"Yes. Is that OK?"

"Sure! Just to let you know, we give a 25% discount to anyone paying in full at the time services are rendered."

"You're kidding?" I said as my jaw refused to shut.

"That'll be $125, Mr. Malone."

[When I got back home, I followed the doctor's orders and immediately went to a medical professional. Because my doctor's offices were closed, I had to go to an ER. They visually examined my knee, gave me a new prescription, which I would have to fill somewhere else, and sent me away. The total bill came to over $1000! Since I had insurance at the time, the visit was covered 100%.]

We rejoined the group about an hour later. They had decided that the trip should not be -- was not -- really over. At the end of the Wild and Scenic part of the canyon are various semi-improved camp sites along the river. That's where we had intended to wind up our trip anyway, so it was decided to go there and raft that part of the river. We spent a glorious three days in that part of the canyon.

If you've never been there, it is without a doubt one of the most beautiful and spiritual places on earth. I encourage all of my readers to go -- and take me with you each time. I'll be making future blog entries about my other white water trips down the beautiful Rio Chama in the Piedre Lumbre of New Mexico.

Although I could not get on the river again on that trip, I promised everyone -- and we all agreed -- that we would return the next year, when the water was lower, and conquer that river once and for all. That's just what we did 14 months later. I promise a funnier story and a happier ending for that future blog entry.

Tracy eventually went to a doctor and discovered that her finger was broken and she had injured her collar bone. It's possible that it had become separated but had popped back into place during that harrowing time under the raft. She, Scott and Jenny were the real heros of this trip. When crunch time came -- sorry about the pun -- each of them acted with clear-headed smarts and got us out of worse trouble. Let's face it, only a group of complete idiots would have continued down that river after what happened against that wall.

My knee injury took over three months to heal. Based upon doctors orders, I got to wear shorts to my "suit and tie" job for about eight weeks. Thinking back to the doctor asking me if was "into my looks," only once since then has anyone asked me about the huge scar on my knee -- a football player who had one very similar to it on his knee. I can always rest assured that my knee injury wasn't white-water-rafting "career" ending.

Chama Rama, Part II

It was a warm afternoon when we finally boarded our raft and kayaks that day. Temperatures climbed quickly in the high mountain sun. Although the water was cold, we were warm in our wetsuits and life vests.

On the raft that day were myself and four others. Scott was the oarsman and captain. He was in charge. Allison sat beside me near the front of the raft. Behind us were Jenny and Susan.

Also on the raft that day were several hundred pounds of gear, including several large containers of fresh water. Water, water everywhere and not a drop to drink, as they say. Looking back, I believe that the boat was too heavy to easily maneuver in the fast current. The fresh water alone probably weighed as much as another person.

Those on the inflatable kayaks were having a great time. Relatively lightweight and compact, they are quick and easy to maneuver. On the kayaks were Tracy, Kip, Ian, David, and a couple of experienced boaters who attended law school with Scott. The kayakers were having so much fun, some of them had gone ahead on the river while others laid back behind us relaxing. They were also behind us in case something happened -- a standard safety precaution in case someone or something falls out of the raft.

Scott knew something was wrong with the raft almost immediately after we got on the river. He began giving orders for Allison and I to use our paddles to help him maneuver the overloaded raft. We gained speed quickly and shot down river. I could tell from the tone of his voice that he was concerned. He's smart and experienced and I would have been a fool to do anything but let him lead.

To this day I know Scott feels bad for what happened next, but I have to tell you -- everything in life contains an element of risk. We all hopped on that river knowing that our "risk factors" were jumping exponentially. Nothing that happened is anyone's "fault" but our own. We assumed the risk, as they say.

A few miles downstream the river took a hard left turn at a high rock wall. Scott started barking orders for us to paddle while he attempted to steer us clear of the obstacle. I didn't really look up or see the wall until we were on it. The speed of the current and the weight of the boat -- inertia -- propelled us sideways right up to that wall.

I can't describe the physics of the water against the wall or the physics of the water, the wall and boat for that matter. But suffice it to say that when we hit that wall, the boat stopped suddenly and didn't move. We had hit it side-on with the full length of the boat. The current pinned us there instantly.

Water rushing downstream piles up against any obstacle before it finds its way around. In the case of this wall, water hit it, bounced off and ran left. In the case of the raft against the wall, water began hitting the raft, piling up and rushing over the side and into the boat. The 40-something degree water started swamping us almost immediately. The raft began leaning into the water on the upstream side.

Scott issued orders for us to get toward the wall -- the downstream side of the boat. We had to dislodge ourselves somehow, so he told us to begin pushing. He even coordinated the pushing with 1-2-3 counts.

In the meantime, upstream on her kayak was Tracy, another former law school friend of Scott's. She's very athletic and has been on this river before. She's also smart, very smart, thankfully. Because on this day, when our luck had turned very bad, hers got even worse and her brains saved her.

Tracy quickly paddled toward us asking for one of us to throw our raft's rope to her. She intended to help pull us off the wall. I can see it all in super slow motion to this day. As she approached us, the current caught her kayak and it accelerated quickly toward us. Water splashed up into the raft as it began to "climb" up the wall. We were about to capsize if we didn't get off this wall immediately.

As the wave crashed up and into the boat, Tracy's kayak was pushed sideways and her boat slammed against the raft. The impact threw Tracy out of her kayak and into the water where she was immediately pushed and sucked under the raft.

In every boat, including kayaks, safety ropes are tied so that you can throw it to someone or so that you can hold onto it if you fall out. Tracy grabbed her rope as she went under the raft.

The raft is 16 feet long. It is pinned completely against a large rock wall. There is no air underneath it, just very cold rushing water pushing and holding the raft, and now Tracy, agains the wall. I feel Tracy's fists beating against the bottom of the raft. Everyone is screaming, the raft is just about to capsize, and for the first time in my life I felt raw panic. The first thoughts in my panic-stricken mind were "Tracy is pinned under the raft, drowning, and we're all about to be down there with her."

Her fists beat again against the bottom of the raft. In that instant the panic vanished. It was time for action. I remember the thoughts going through my head at that moment. They were something like, "NO! This is not the way this trip is going to end. This is not going to happen. We are not going to lose this fight! We have to get off this rock so Tracy can come up."

Still screaming, we all climbed quickly up against the wall and began pushing off, pushing off, pushing off. The boat had started to creep up the wall as it prepared to capsize, but our weight brought it down and it began to settle as the water we had taken on redistributed itself.

To my left, I saw Tracy's head bob up out of the water. She had the kayak's safety rope in her hand. Then she quickly disappeared around the corner of the wall and was gone.

"We can do this," I screamed inside my head. The rocking of the boat had begun to work, we were inching slowly to the left and were about to round the corner. Another wave rushed over the side of the boat and it actually help propel us off the wall. We were clear.

Now, with an overloaded boat of exhausted rafters, we had to get to the side of the river. There was at least 8 inches of water in the bottom of the raft so we started bailing. Scott started looking for a place to take the boat out. He was working furiously to control the boat at this point. Panic had quickly changed to exhaustion and we needed to get out of this current.

We looked for Tracy and there she was on the side of the river, shivering, wet and scared. Someone on a kayak was rushing to her aid. We knew she was OK, so we got back to the task at hand -- bailing huge amounts of water out of the raft and following Scott's orders to turn the boat. What we didn't learn until later was that Tracy had broken a finger and injured her collar bone. She never once complained that I recall.

Scott found a place for us to take out. This procedure, known as "eddying out," involves turning the front of the boat upstream and moving cross-currents to come alongside the bank of the river. But we had fast water and high water. We overshot the place Scott had identified and before we knew it, we were crashing into tree limbs and branches along the flooded bank.

Allison and I were in the front of the boat again. She was looking right as the trees approached from the left. "Lookout!" I screamed and jumped over her to grab a limb headed straight for her head. I pushed the limb down and away from her. I felt it scrape my knee, but didn't feel anything more. We didn't stay in this spot for long, however. We couldn't hold the boat against the trees in the current.

Back into the current we went and then downstream we found a better take out and pulled in there to rest and bail the remainder of the water out of the boat. Scott went to check on Tracy. We bailed water. While I was doing this, calming down a bit, I began to feel some pain in my knee. I looked down a couple of times and saw that it was bleeding a little from what looked like a scrape. "Damn!" I thought. I better get that thing covered up before it gets dirty and infected.

I asked Jenny if she had a first aid kit on the boat and she started looking for it immediately. Allison, in the meantime, looked at my knee and saw something I didn't. She told me to sit down and began inspecting the "scrape."

"What's this?" she said.

"What's what?" I replied.

"Looks like you've got something in there."

"What?" I said as I reached down to feel it. "Oh, damn! There's something in there!" I'll skip the expletives, but suffice it to say that I was pissed at this point.

Adrenaline and cold water mix well, as it turns out, to deaden pain. I still didn't feel a thing in my knee, although I felt pain at the point of the "scrape" where it had entered. But my fingers could feel what had to be a part of a tree broken off under the skin on the left side of my kneecap.

"Let's get it out of there. Got any tweezers in that First Aid Kit, Jenny?"

"I think so, just a minute. Here!" She handed the tweezers to Allison.

Allison bravely started to try to help. She poked and prodded around trying to grab onto whatever it was. Just as she started, however, a cold wind started howling down the canyon. Suddenly a thunderstorm rose up over the canyon walls. Thunder, lightning, gale force winds and heavy rain came quickly over the canyon and upon us. We huddled and slowly started getting colder and colder as the storm passed. We were all shaking from the cold.

Trying to get that thing out of my knee was useless at this point.

We waited the storm out. Within 45 minutes it was gone.

Scott returned and a decision was made that we needed to get off the river to assess the damage to the boat and to our ourselves. It was late in the afternoon by this time and we were miles downstream in a wilderness. The nearest road was an unknown distance away. Darkness had begun to fall.

It was soul-searching time. The question was presented: Do we stay on the river or do we try to get out of this canyon?

Next: Is there a doctor in the house?

Chama Rama, Part I

We're going to take a break from the political commentary for a little bit so that I can tell the story about a certain white water rafting trip I took down New Mexico's beautiful Chama River canyon some years ago. I should warn you in advance that the story is full of heroism and harrowing details, certainly not for the faint of heart.

The story begins early one Friday morning in late May. At the top of the canyon sits a concrete dam behind which sits El Vado Lake brimming full with snow melt. After a beautiful night's encampment on the lakeside, we head down past the dam to start our journey. Ahead of us we have 35 miles of an untamed river that has slowly carved its way deeper and deeper into the sandstone walls of the canyon. It is known as the Chama River Wild and Scenic Recreation Area, one of just a very few such places remaining in the United States.

At several points along the way the sky becomes little more than a blue ribbon above bounded by sheer rock walls rising hundreds of feet on either side. It is a truly magical place that is untouched by the hand of man -- except for the water levels which are rigidly monitored and controlled. During the summer only those with special permits may take the trip down the river. Before Memorial Day, however, no permits are required. It was then that we had arrived.

Water is unique among all Earthly substances. It is a liquid, but has the properties of a solid when moving. In the world of river rafting the standard basic measure of a river's flow is one cubic foot of water per second. A cubic foot contains about 7.5 gallons of water.

On a typical summer day the Chama River flows past Gauging Station Rapid above Abiqui Lake at about 150 cubic feet per second (cfs). At this rate, water drops below the tops of the boulders and makes for a relatively benign rafting trip -- sometimes even some walking.

On this morning we heard a siren wail up and down the canyon walls alerting us that water levels were going to rise suddenly. The flood gates of the dam about a mile upstream were being opened to release the swelling snowmelt behind the dam. The water temperature was below 50 degrees.

We weren't really prepared for what happened next. Don't get me wrong, we were ready for the water to rise. And that it did. But the water also began to flow faster and faster. It quickly rose out of the stream bed up into the trees adjacent to the river. It swallowed the rapids and boulders. It looked almost placid as it swept quickly past us. It flowed so fast and high that it appeared much safer than it was.

What we didn't know then that we know now is that water was suddenly being released downstream at historic levels. I've checked the official records online recently and found out that since this trip in 1995, water has not flowed down the Chama River canyon anywhere near the levels we encountered that day. It was being released at 4,490 cubic feet per second. Put another way, there were 33,675 gallons of water flowing underneath us each second. Other than one day in May 1995, the river has never flowed more than 1,456 cfs in the twelve years since.

But we had come prepared that day -- we thought. We had all the gear, including wet suits to protect from hypothermia. We had life jackets in case someone fell in the water. We had lots of food and fresh water. Loaded into a 16-foot raft were enough supplies to last the 11 of us a week if necessary. We had shelter and clothing in abundance. Other than a few items taken by individuals who were on inflatable kayaks, all of it was loaded into the raft.

We didn't jump on the river right away either. After we heard the siren, it was decided that we would take as much time as we needed to double check all the gear and to take a refresher safety training course on the river bank. It added two hours to our departure time, but we weren't going to rush safety.

We were overconfident, though. We were inexperienced for the most part. There were lots of novices on this trip, including myself. There were some experts, but they could not watch over all of us all of the time. Mistakes were undoubtedly going to be made. The safety training was intended to limit the impact of those mistakes. Unfortunately, the extra time didn't prevent the disaster that awaited us a few miles down the river.

A river that normally flows at 150 cfs is nothing less than at flood stage when it flows at 4500 cfs. One government pamphlet I read recently said this about a flooding river: "Floods are deadly. Stay away from flood waters. Do not attempt to cross flood waters in your car or on a boat. Never attempt to swim across a flooded stream or river. Many preventable deaths occur every year . . ." You get the drift.

As a peaceful stream, the Chama enjoys its life at the bottom of a river channel. Tree-lined banks offer a home for Canadian Geese and their goslings, deer and other wildlife. When the river is low, the banks are dry and pleasant places. Willows and beavers abound. When the water is low and the rocks are visible, you can see the wakes and eddys -- little currents flowing downstream.

On a raft, steering the boat around these rocks becomes one of the biggest challenges of a wild river trip. Rapids form around the rocks and at places where the elevation of the river suddenly drops. They become a white water obstacle course where sudden drops and turns push a rafter around like a toy unless the person performs certain counter-actions and takes precautions against being thrown out of his boat.

On this day, there were to be no rapids. The water was so high that all of the rocks were submerged several feet under water. The rapids has been washed out. This was going to be a float trip. It might have been simple but for two things: trees and current. The trees along the riverbank were now in the river. The obstacle course for the river rafter on this day was to stay out of the trees. Because the water was flowing so fast and so high, decisions regarding trees had to be made quickly. They had to be avoided at all costs.

Before we jumped on our boats and headed downstream, I decided to take a look at the water coming out of the dam. We stood atop a steep, narrow gorge and looked up at the dam. It looked like a minature version of the Hoover Dam. It was old. But the dam couldn't hold my attention for long.

The ground was literally shaking as if from an earthquake. It was the water. Clear dark water dropped down out of an opening 1/3 of the way from the bottom of the dam, into a concrete channel that curved first down steeply and then upward and outward at a 45 degree angle. When the water reached the end of the channel, it exploded into a massive white spray reaching 75 feet into the air. As it fell, it rained down into the river with the sound of a rocket engine. It was an unending explosion that created a constant roar.

What I saw was nothing less than one of the most awesome displays of power I will ever see in my life. It made me a little weak in the knees. The ground shook. The noise was deafening. The spray of water reached out hundreds of feet. It was AWESOME.

As we left, I snapped a few photos. I had butterflies in my stomach, but wasn't terribly frightened. "Awesome," I kept hearing in my head. I was a little intimidated, but I was also confident that we could safely navigate this river.

Shortly after one o'clock that day we all boarded our boats and began our ill-fated trip down the river. We were smiling and laughing. Our adventure vacation had officially begun. Within the hour the smiles would be gone, two people would be seriously injured and one of us would be trapped several feet under our raft in 40-something degree water pinned by the current against a rock wall.

Next in "Chama Rama II" Crisis and survival on the river.

Introduction to "Notes from the Hinterland"

Portrait of the Blogger

The Hinterland I presently hail from is Taos, New Mexico, USA. A strange place with big beautiful mountains and painterly blue skies unlike anywhere in the world. It is and has been the home to many of the world's most famous artists. It is the "secret" destination of many of our nation's elites. 


New Mexico is "The Land of Enchantment" and the birthplace of "The Bomb." Over on the other side of the Central Mountains and just a short time after the first atomic bomb was tested south of here, the Roswell Incident occurred.  Los Alamos is down the road from Taos. But don't worry, I'm not going to write about space aliens here. I mean, really, they're much more likely to be where you are than where I am.  The Taos Hum might deserve an explanation, but so far as we can tell, an alien origin to the Hum would be a great Science Fiction story.


Far and remote from the coasts are we. No airline hub here. Nope.  California has 5 counties with populations larger than the entire State of New Mexico.  Texas has 2, New York 2 as well.


Since you'd have to drive about two and a half hours to get to Taos from an airport that has more than one airline, you're probably wondering why 2 million visitors make the effort every year.  Put another way:  You have to really understand why Taos is important in order to make the effort to get here. 


La Posada de Taos was the first B&B in Taos and remains one of the oldest continuously operating in the state.  It's a great business and it's an even more wonderful opportunity to live and be present in such an amazingly beautiful home where our doors are open for visitors to enjoy as their home away from home in this incredible place.  If you want to catch a glimpse of what I'm talking about, check out some of my photos on Facebook:  http://www.facebook.com/r.brad.malone?sk=photos.


In 2007, before I became an Innkeeper in Taos, I began this blog as a forum for both storytelling and social commentary.  Although I'd love to have a political discussion with you, it's inappropriate for an Innkeeper to be harsh or opinionated when his guests are more interested in learning about Taos Pueblo than in discussing the federal deficit.  Washington, D.C.?  Where's that?


My days begin sitting down at breakfast with our guests at La Posada de Taos.  Each day our Chef, my partner Michael, prepares something entirely from scratch.  And each day I set plates of gourmet breakfasts down and then join our guests for a shared meal around the dining room table.  It's a magical time for me.  Meeting folks from all over the world and facilitating their interaction with one another as well as with Taos is a gift.


As I've been honing my storytelling skills at the breakfast table, I've been asked to also share some of them on the blogosphere.


Thus, a blog begins anew.  I've retained a few blog posts about interesting things that happened here in New Mexico in the years or months leading up to our arrival in Taos.  It is my intention, however, not to keep the focus on personal stories and to ultimately relay to you some of the quintessential Taos history that will amaze and, hopefully, entertain you.


The English hadn't even come to the East Coast by the time the American Indian and Spanish Colonials had already settled their boundary disputes in New Mexico.  The history of this region can be traced through tales dating back to pre-history and moving forward through the Spanish era that began over 400 years ago to the immigration of Anglos in the mid-1800's, artists at the turn of the 20th Century and then the Hippies of the late 1960's.


Why Taos, New Mexico? It's a fair question. A lot of Americans don't even know where it is. Some folks out here like it that way. New Mexicans revel in being mistaken as being from somewhere else. It's true that some Americans believe that a passport is required to enter or leave the state. Each month New Mexico Magazine prints a column entitled "One of Our 50 is Missing" featuring stories from citizens who have been, for example, denied insurance coverage ("We don't insure persons or property outside the US.") or unable to pass through TSA Security without first giving passport information.


Albuquerque, with over a million people in its metro area, is the most remote large city in America.  Thus, Taos is even more remote.  It's a town of 5000 people that was described in 2009 by culture critic Dave Hickey in this way: 

In the twentieth century, it has probably produced more serious art and literature than any other non-metropolitan area in the United States, and, throughout this century, Taos' virtues have remained more amenable to producers of art than to it's consumers. It has resisted gentrification. . . 

I'll be getting back to Mr. Hickey's observations in a future post, but suffice it to say that there is no other town of 5000 people like Taos.  It is geographically isolated -- surrounded on three sides by the Sangre de Christo Range of the Southern Rockies.  Trains never came to Taos.  The closest Interstate Highway is over 60 miles away.  There is a old-guard of isolationists who fight hard to keep Taos' unique identity and to prevent it from becoming what many perceive as the horror:  an adobe-themed tourist park similar to Santa Fe.


All the photos included on this site are my own.  You can visit me on Facebook both as an individual and through posts on our B&B's website at laposadadetaos.com.


If you want to know more, or if you're going to be visiting Taos, it is my hope that you can use me as a resource.  It's time to get on with it.  See you back soon, I hope.