Once Upon a Time in New Mexico
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ONCE UPON A TIME IN NEW MEXICO The soaring canyons and sagebrush plains of northern New Mexico have attracted artists, spiritual seekers and free thinkers for over a century. A road trip through the high desert — encountering a hippy commune, artists’ studios, futuristic eco-homes and a Benedictine monastery — uncovers the weird, wild and wonderful soul of the American Southwest WORDS AMELIA DUGGAN IMAGES: AMELIA DUGGAN; JEN JUDGE 94 nationalgeographic.co.uk/travel April 2020 95 NEW MEXICO NEW MEXICO IT’S POSSIBLE TO GO YEARS — OR A WHOLE LIFETIME — WITHOUT CONSIDERING OUR INFINITESIMAL PLACE IN THE VASTNESS OF CREATION. But in the desert of New Mexico, existential I’m invited to dine with them, to labour revelations seem to come thick and fast. in the gardens alongside them during the It’s dusk in the Chama River Canyon. I’ve morning work period, and to attend — if padded uphill from my guest quarters, I wish — their nine daily church services. through a meditation garden decorated with The welcome literature also encourages the Stations of the Cross, to join my hosts in me to join them in a commitment to their chapel. Soft light streams in through contemplative silence. the patchwork of windowpanes, entombing The local crickets, however, have agreed a gory carving of Christ in a grid of radiance to no such terms; as I return down the hill to and shade. Black-robed Benedictine monks bed, their deafening chorus adds texture to — some wizened, some fresh-faced, many the still, black night and, later, seeps into occupying the years in between — chant my dreams. psalms from the shadowy transepts. “The When the steady clang of a bell rings out Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.” One for 4am vigils and I shuffle blearily back monk wafts a thurible around the central towards the chapel, the darkness of the altar, taking steady steps. “He maketh me to valley has deepened. Overhead, the entire lie down in green pastures; he leadeth me cosmos is lit up: layer upon layer of distant beside the still waters.” Finials of sweet- galaxies and burning suns — a ceiling that scented smoke wind languorously through puts the Sistine Chapel’s to shame. I reach the beams of light. the steps but, instead of slipping into a Outside the tall windows, a sliver of pew, I sit outside to watch the stars. Yellow a moon rises over the canyon in a wan, candlelight glows through the cracks in cornflower-blue sky — the last vestiges of a the door behind me; the monks’ ethereal blistering summer’s day. The colours of the Gregorian chanting spills out into the empty landscape slowly intensify, emphasising canyon. It feels divine. russet veins in the rockface — sediment “They say the deeper you go into the laid down by a powerful river millennia ago. desert, the more you’ll be sought out. There’s “Even though I walk through the valley of a lure, a fascination,” Abbot Christian tells the shadow of death, I will fear no evil,” the me on the morning of my departure. It’s monks sing. I’ve now completely lost my the first and only conversation of my stay; place in the hymn book. All I can think about one I requested in low whispers from the is the improbability of my being here. monk on hospitality duty. The abbot, who I don’t just mean this in the metaphysical joins me on a garden bench, surprises me by sense. Staying at the Monastery of Christ being both charming and gregarious — not in the Desert, the most remote in the at all severe or solemn, as I’d imagined. He Western Hemisphere, is one of the more repeatedly steers the conversation towards outlandish travel experiences of my life. It’s ’80s movies and The Beatles; I repeatedly a hard journey to reach the monks — their steer it back to the desert. “It’s a strong RIGHT: Monastery of off-grid home sits at the end of a 13-mile tradition in monasticism, of course,” he Christ in the Desert red dirt track outside the pit-stop town of says. “The earliest monks went out into the PREVIOUS PAGES FROM Abiquiu, which is a two-hour drive from Egyptian desert. For the solitude, the quiet, LEFT: Cowgirl leading a the state capital, Santa Fe. Despite my firm the beauty.” Abbot Christian pauses and horse ahead of trail ride at Ghost Ranch; Highway agnosticism, I’ve come to sample the solitude looks out over the flowerbeds and modest 76, known as the High and beauty of the monastery; the monks graveyard to the amphitheatre of grasslands Road, en route to Taos welcome people of all faiths and no faith. and rock spires beyond. “This was created IMAGE: JEN JUDGE 96 nationalgeographic.co.uk/travel April 2020 97 NEW MEXICO NEW MEXICO “IT’S SOMETHING over aeons of time,” he says pensively, Kingdom Of The Crystal Skull, as well as a echoing my own thoughts. “Man can hardly number of Westerns) and concludes with THAT’S IN THE fathom it.” some showstopping geology. “See those The Benedictines aren’t the only ones to two mesas in the distance,” Rachel says AIR, IT’S JUST find inspiration and solace in this ancient as we dismount to rest our horses. “Five landscape. When I arrive at my rustic cottage million years ago, they made up the sides of DIFFERENT. THE at Ghost Ranch, the legendary retreat and a super volcano, maybe 20,000ft high, until SKY IS DIFFERENT, education centre an hour’s drive east of it exploded with the force of three nuclear the monastery, the smattering of people bombs.” It’s a chilling metric to choose, THE STARS ARE I encounter around the main compound an allusion to the state’s role in the birth seems to have been plucked from a circus. A of the atomic age: the first ever A-bomb DIFFERENT, THE bare-chested man juggles beanbags; a troupe was developed in nearby Los Alamos and WIND IS DIFFERENT” of blindfolded women are attempting to detonated in an area south of here. It’s a circle a cottonwood tree; and tiny children reminder that the desert doesn’t only bring — GEORGIA dressed in tie-dye rough-and-tumble on the out the best in mankind. scrubby lawn. “We attract a lot of artists. A A sudden clap of thunder makes the horses O’KEEFFE lot of solo travellers too. Most people are on buck and whinny, and a burst of rain soaks their own private journeys,” Karen Butts, us all to the skin, releasing the rich scents the tours and education manager, explains. of juniper bushes, minerally dust and the “This remote corner has always attracted horses’ sweat. On the canyon walls, pastel interesting characters.” yellows and mauves transform into the One of the best known of these characters colour of angry bruises. But then, as quickly was 20th-century American painter Georgia as it started, the storm abates; the clouds O’Keeffe, who fled the patriarchal confines of part and the light returns. New York in the ’40s and made this 21,000- acre estate her home and her muse. Perdenal, OUT OF THIS WORLD a narrow mesa nine miles to the south, In northern New Mexico, all roads lead to was her favourite subject. “It’s my private Santa Fe. It’s always been that way. Since its mountain. God told me if I painted it enough founding as a Spanish colony in 1610, the I could have it,” O’Keeffe once joked. As with city has been a crossroads for major trade the monks, people made long pilgrimages to routes — it was one of the northern termini seek out O’Keeffe in the desert; guests at of the Camino Real de Tierra Adentro from her humble cottage included artists Frida Mexico City and the start of the Santa Fe Kahlo and Andy Warhol, and the psychiatrist Trail, a wagon route that stretched across Carl Jung. the Great Plains to Missouri. The result, I head out to explore more of the ranch on perhaps unsurprisingly, is that the city — the horseback, a set of watercolour paints tucked second oldest in the US — is a melting pot into my saddlebag in case inspiration strikes. of cultures, producing food, architecture Three tough-as-nails Texan cowgirls run and art unlike that found anywhere else the ranch stables (one vice-like handshake in the country. It’s the latter that Santa Fe cracks all my knuckles), and they lead our particularly prides itself on; it’s said there’s a small party with the flair and swagger of greater concentration of artists here than in rodeo pros. It’s wild, wild country. Red any other US city. I lose count of the number dust streams from our horses’ hooves as of galleries and museums I pass as I wander we navigate dried riverbeds, passing trees through the Canyon Road arts district, mangled by lightning; I feel like we’ve left the ending up in the heart of the low-rise, adobe- planet, not just the homestead. Threatening style historic centre. clouds roll in, darkening the land. Around us, On first impression, Santa Fe strikes me large ravens croak murderously. as unnervingly polished: the leafy streets, Our guides lean into the atmosphere, with their uniform heritage aesthetic and telling spooky tales of slaughtered cattle eye-wateringly expensive boutiques, jar poachers and buried treasure, and the legend with the authenticity and rawness of life in of Vivaron, a giant mythical rattlesnake the desert.