The High road Santa Fe to Taos
fiction
Edward w Pritchard
The High road Santa Fe to Taos beckons me return. In America's time scale it's an ancient route. Five hundred years have passed.
Adobe houses, homes in communal cliffs and hard difficult living. Great beauty of landscape and vast sweeps of solitude. Heat and wind and lonely sky. It's a difficult place to scratch out a living.
There is nothing to say about New Mexico. It leaves one feeling small, a miniscule part of the magnificence of creation. At the horizon the dry landscape abuts the distant stars.
Once we sat next to a wagon and watched a fire blaze on the high road from Santa Fe to Taos. Stew was pushed around a plate with Navaho bread and Spanish whiskey warmed cold nights.
People and animals each mind their own business in New Mexico. Native Americans proffer pots in the square in Sante Fe and blankets are sold in Taos.
History is not studied in New Mexico, it unfolds each day.
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