Watching the land change

I probably haven’t been west of Weatherford in years, but today we drove west and west, to Abilene and beyond, with Ruidoso our destination. Left behind poor Sophie, who with dog sense knew we were leaving her. In fact, she’s known for days. But she has a dogsitter, so she and the houses are in good hands.

I’d forgotten how interesting the land is beyond Abilene—scrubby, yes, with lots of mesquite, but rolling plains with occasional wonderful views. Great clumps of prickly pear line the roadway for long stretches, and the bare trees hosted lots of mistletoe. When we got beyond Abilene we were in West Texas, that flat land that stretches forever. Endless cotton fields with the cotton now bundled and covered in tarps, waiting for someone to pick them up. I wondered who comes to collect all that cotton, or do the farmers take it somewhere? Isolated houses dot those now-plowed fields, with one or two trees and sometimes a whole cluster. There may be a single house or an old one and a newer one, and I wondered which generation lived in which house. I love to wonder about the lives of the people in these farmhouses and small towns—what are their lives like? Are they happy with them? And then there are those deserted houses, many of them literally falling down.

West Texas also has countless wind farms. Today those giant turbines moved slowly, apparently making do with little wind. I know people go up in them for maintenance, but it puzzled me that there was room for an elevator, and even for people. I saw towns that I’ve heard of but never seen, and towns that had connections for me—Sweetwater, Post, Snyder. Refreshed my memory about Albany and tried to remember which town has the first ever Hilton Hotel (it was Cisco, Texas).

We swung north into New Mexico, and somewhere along there in Texas and New Mexico we came into a land of vineyards, some small, some extensive, but they all looked like young vines. We also passed several orchards, the trees now bare, and I wondered what trees they were.

I’m sorry, but there’s not much good to say about southern New Mexico. It’s just there. But then we turned west and gradually came into the rounded foothills and then the mountains. Hondo Valley stretches like one long, stringy town between Roswell and Ruidoso. We went through San Patricio, and though I’d seen a weather-beaten sign for Hurd Gallery, I had no idea where Peter Hurd and Henrietta Wyeth Hurd had their fabled artistic getaway.

Watching the changing topography and the crops was fascinating. I sort of traced the history in my mind and gave Jordan and Christian mini-history lessons. They were polite bu I don’t know how interested they really were.

Now we’re in a huge two-story log cabin in the woods, all sixteen of us. We saw deer the first thing—a doe came right up to the cabin. Obviously she’d been fed from here before, so Christian rewarded her with a turkey and cheese sandwich. Everybody is exhausted from a long day of driving, but we’re blessed and grateful to be together.

Blessings on you and yours this holiday!