It was a beautiful early April morning, a wonderful time to be in the southern mountains of New Mexico. At this altitude, it wasn’t really spring, yet, despite the calendar’s claim. Shortly after the sun set, the temperature would begin to plunge below freezing.
Standing in the sunshine, the old man thought—as he frequently did—the temperature really didn’t matter during the daylight in New Mexico. If you stood in the piercing direct sunlight you were usually warm enough to get by with just a good shirt, but if you worked in the shade, you needed a solid jacket. If you were stupid enough to be out and about after midnight without suitable protection from the cold, you could freeze to death.
Though there were still a few patches of snow scattered under the trees and along the shady side of rock formations, the hiking trail was generally clear as it wandered up the side of the mountain. The old man stood for a while and watched as his grandson raced to catch up. The boy reminded the old man of a young puppy, alternating between racing ahead until he was distracted, then running to catch up.
“Grandpa?” the boy asked as he caught up with his grandfather. “Why aren’t there any houses up here? This place is pretty. I’d like to live here.”
“Yes, it is pretty, now. But, Mason, if you had been up here a couple of months ago, everything would have been under a couple of feet of snow. And there is no road up the side of the mountain, and there are no electric lines. How would you plug in your PlayStation?”
Mason looked surprised and began looking about in every direction, probably trying to locate a utility pole, so he could catch his grandfather in an error (it was one of his favorite pastimes, as he correctly believed that his grandfather enjoyed teasing him).
The old man patiently explained to the boy that New Mexico was one of the least populous states in the country, with far more places left wild than developed. He explained that there were still plenty of places left that when you walked across the ground, you were probably the first person in history to cross that spot. The old man didn’t bother to explain that those spots were mostly in the state’s arid deserts and canyons, and probably didn’t include the mountain forest where they were currently hiking. (Too much information can ruin a good story.)
Sitting on a fallen log, the old man watched the boy running through the underbrush, obviously thrilled with exploring “new territory”.
Finally tiring, Mason joined his grandfather on the log. “Why are all the trees bent over?” he asked.
“For most of the year, the winds come racing up the mountain from the valley, generally blowing in the same direction all year long. As the trees grow, they start to lean into the wind.”
“It’s so quiet up here.”
“Well, we’re lucky to be up here now. In a few weeks when the spring winds start, this place will be loud as hell.”
“Why’s that?” the boy asked.
“What’s the name of the town down below?”
“Ruidoso.”
“Well,” said the old man. “That means ‘noisy’ in Spanish. The first Europeans who came here were from Spain, and when they got here they were astonished at all the noise.”
“I don’t hear any noise.”
“Well, when those winds I was telling you are about to start up in the spring, they blow across Arizona, right through New Mexico, and into Texas. Along the way, they just snatch up the words people are saying and just blow them away.”
Mason tilted his head, staring at his grandfather, clearly not sure about the veracity of what he was hearing.
“Yep,” continued his grandfather. “All spring long, you can hear little bits of conversations that the winds have picked up and whisked away. As they blow across these mountains, they began to snag and catch on every tree and bush. Sometimes, it sounds like the trees are talking to each other. Once, I was walking along the highway and heard a whole Sunday sermon from Tucson that had been caught along the fence line. By the end of summer, these mountains sound like hundreds of people talking—it’s so damn loud that a body can’t think with everyone talking all at once.”
“Why don’t we hear them now?”, asked the boy.
“When winter comes, the snow that falls is so heavy that it holds all those little bits of stolen conversations down. As the snow melts, it washes all the words underground. Why, if you were to dig down a dozen feet below this log, you could probably find conversations from a hundred years ago, just waiting to be dug up and listened to.”
Mason stared intently down at the ground, as if looking for a stray word that been washed away, then looked intently at this grandfather. “Are you telling me the truth?”
“Of course, I am. Grandfathers never fib to their grandsons.”
“Really?”
“Yep,” said the old man. “Give or take a lie or two.”
My family went camping down near Ruidoso when I was teaching church school in Portales. It was lovely, crisp and cool. We found an abandoned apple orchard up near where we were. It was apple-pickin' time so we raided the trees figuring that it being a national or state park (I forget which - I've slept since that camping trip in 1979) that the apples were fair game. I don't know whether it was the soil, the mountain air or the fact that the apples had ripened on the tree, but those were the best tasting apples I'd ever eaten. Ugly gnarly little things, but they rivaled an apple pie for sweetness. Beautiful country down there. As an early onset old geezer, I can well appreciate how it could inspire story-telling, especially if you have a grandson with you. Story-stretching by the elder generation to the younger generation is a time-honored way to create mythology. My grandson is 2500 miles away. I may have to return to the heat of Texas soon so I can pass along my grandpa's mythology to that little boy. The heat I can bear. Not telling my stories? Not so much.
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