Early December. Although mild enough in Wisconsin, I had anticipated warmer weather heading west and south. Instead, it was minus 2 degrees and 6 inches of snow as I arrived in Tucumcari, New Mexico. Kathryn and Michael Fulton at the Route 66 Motel advised me that even I-25 was closed. So I checked into my cozy motel room, broke out my computer and a beer, and polished up a column for my recent boot camp series.
Next morning, my computer tells me that roads are still closed, so no use rushing off. I wander outside and before heading over to the Pow Wow Inn for huevos rancheros, chat with Michael for a while. Although the temperature is in the teens, the bright sunlight, dry air, and no wind makes it feel like in the 30s - very pleasant. After a leisurely breakfast of coffee and huevos rancheros, I again check my computer. Whaddaya know - looks like I-25 is now open.
I toss my gear into my GMC and head west on I-40. Normally I would turn south on US 54 at Santa Rosa, across high range country to Vaughn, Corona, Carrizozo, Tularosa, Alamogordo, then West on US 70 across the White Sands Missile Range, and over the Organ Mountains to Las Cruces and the Mesilla Valley. But not this time. Instead, it will be the more passable route, I-40 all the way to Albuquerque, then south on I-25 to Las Cruces.
Traveling west on I-40 the north wind picks up. But the road is clear and the bright sunlight on the snow-covered high desert makes for a picturesque drive. I reach Albuquerque and head south on I-25. The Rio Grande rises in southern Colorado and flows south near Santa Fe, through Albuquerque and along communities of Los Lunas, Bernalillo, Belin, the Bosque del Apache wildlife refuge, then Socorro, Truth Or Consequences, and Las Cruces. Some 50 miles south of Las Cruces, the Rio Grande curves to the southeast at El Paso, becoming the fabled border with Mexico.
I-25 basically follows the Rio Grande through the valley, now snow-covered in the bright sunlight. As I travel down that historic route I'm reminded how we study history from east to west. It's logical and makes sense insofar as our culture, institutions, and language are British rather than Spanish. But in the process, we miss so much of the history and heritage that is an integral part of our nation.
For example, how many Americans could imagine that in 1620, had the pilgrims sailed to the Gulf of Mexico and been able to wend their way up the Rio Grande, they could have stayed in a hotel in Santa Fe - founded in 1610? Okay, so Santa Fe had not yet acquired the posh hotels, and attracted artists, celebrities, and the rich and famous. But by 1620 it was a going community and plausibly more hospitable than the barren New England coast.
Don Juan de Onate was the son of a Spanish Conquistador, married to a granddaughter of Hernando Cortez, the conquistador who conquered the Aztecs of Mexico in 1525. In 1595, the Spanish King ordered Onate to colonize the northern reaches of New Spain. In 1598, Onate led a band from Mexico, across the Rio Grande at Paso del Norte (now El Paso), and north up the Rio Grande Valley and founded the province of Santa Fe de Nuevo Mexico.
The route along the Rio Grande became known as El Camino Real, the Royal Highway. When traveling I-25, one can imagine the countless treks made by indigenous peoples and the Spanish invaders along this historic route and how they viewed the same landforms viewed by travelers of today.
I reach Socorro in late afternoon. "Socorro" is Spanish for "help" or "aid." El Camino Real followed the Rio Grande - but not exactly. There is a 120-mile stretch of the river with a westward bend accompanied by deep canyons, and even quicksand, making for tough going. To short circuit this stretch, El Camino Real took a deadly shortcut across a barren, waterless 90-mile stretch that became known as the Jornada del Muerto, or Journey of Death.
As Onate's group emerged from this barren stretch, Piro Indians of the pueblo of Teypana gave the Spaniards food and water. The Spaniards thus renamed this pueblo "Socorro." But there's far more to the history of that stretch of the Jornada del Muerto.
Near Socorro is the crossroads town of San Antonio, now famous for its Owl Bar and renowned chile cheeseburgers. Prior to I-25, it was a wide spot in the road on the intersection of old Highway 85 and US 380. Back in 1939, one J.E. Miera was running his store and renting out cabins with the only phone and gas pumps in town. His competitor was a Norwegian immigrant, Augustus Halvorson Hilton who, with his German wife, Mary Genevieve (nee Laufersweiler), ran a mercantile and hotel.
Gus Hilton's establishment burned to the ground in 1940. Miero purchased the wooden bar that had been rescued from the wreckage of Hilton's establishment. He thought he might need it some day.
Lo and behold, a few years later, Miera was renting his cabins to a circumspect, mysterious bunch that claimed to be "prospectors," buying up his gas and constantly tying up his phones. And, lest we get ahead of the story, he found a use for the bar he rescued from Hilton's establishment.
Wait a minute - spring 1945, there was a bloody war going on. What were this mysterious bunch of grown men - they surely must be draft dodgers - doing in the middle of nowhere, at the end of the Jornada del Muerto, wasting manpower and rationed gas, looking for rocks and constantly tying up his phones?
Next week: Jornada del Muerto, hotels, nuclear physicists, and chile cheeseburgers.
- John Waelti's column appears in the Times every Friday. He can be reached at jjwaelti1@tds.net.
Next morning, my computer tells me that roads are still closed, so no use rushing off. I wander outside and before heading over to the Pow Wow Inn for huevos rancheros, chat with Michael for a while. Although the temperature is in the teens, the bright sunlight, dry air, and no wind makes it feel like in the 30s - very pleasant. After a leisurely breakfast of coffee and huevos rancheros, I again check my computer. Whaddaya know - looks like I-25 is now open.
I toss my gear into my GMC and head west on I-40. Normally I would turn south on US 54 at Santa Rosa, across high range country to Vaughn, Corona, Carrizozo, Tularosa, Alamogordo, then West on US 70 across the White Sands Missile Range, and over the Organ Mountains to Las Cruces and the Mesilla Valley. But not this time. Instead, it will be the more passable route, I-40 all the way to Albuquerque, then south on I-25 to Las Cruces.
Traveling west on I-40 the north wind picks up. But the road is clear and the bright sunlight on the snow-covered high desert makes for a picturesque drive. I reach Albuquerque and head south on I-25. The Rio Grande rises in southern Colorado and flows south near Santa Fe, through Albuquerque and along communities of Los Lunas, Bernalillo, Belin, the Bosque del Apache wildlife refuge, then Socorro, Truth Or Consequences, and Las Cruces. Some 50 miles south of Las Cruces, the Rio Grande curves to the southeast at El Paso, becoming the fabled border with Mexico.
I-25 basically follows the Rio Grande through the valley, now snow-covered in the bright sunlight. As I travel down that historic route I'm reminded how we study history from east to west. It's logical and makes sense insofar as our culture, institutions, and language are British rather than Spanish. But in the process, we miss so much of the history and heritage that is an integral part of our nation.
For example, how many Americans could imagine that in 1620, had the pilgrims sailed to the Gulf of Mexico and been able to wend their way up the Rio Grande, they could have stayed in a hotel in Santa Fe - founded in 1610? Okay, so Santa Fe had not yet acquired the posh hotels, and attracted artists, celebrities, and the rich and famous. But by 1620 it was a going community and plausibly more hospitable than the barren New England coast.
Don Juan de Onate was the son of a Spanish Conquistador, married to a granddaughter of Hernando Cortez, the conquistador who conquered the Aztecs of Mexico in 1525. In 1595, the Spanish King ordered Onate to colonize the northern reaches of New Spain. In 1598, Onate led a band from Mexico, across the Rio Grande at Paso del Norte (now El Paso), and north up the Rio Grande Valley and founded the province of Santa Fe de Nuevo Mexico.
The route along the Rio Grande became known as El Camino Real, the Royal Highway. When traveling I-25, one can imagine the countless treks made by indigenous peoples and the Spanish invaders along this historic route and how they viewed the same landforms viewed by travelers of today.
I reach Socorro in late afternoon. "Socorro" is Spanish for "help" or "aid." El Camino Real followed the Rio Grande - but not exactly. There is a 120-mile stretch of the river with a westward bend accompanied by deep canyons, and even quicksand, making for tough going. To short circuit this stretch, El Camino Real took a deadly shortcut across a barren, waterless 90-mile stretch that became known as the Jornada del Muerto, or Journey of Death.
As Onate's group emerged from this barren stretch, Piro Indians of the pueblo of Teypana gave the Spaniards food and water. The Spaniards thus renamed this pueblo "Socorro." But there's far more to the history of that stretch of the Jornada del Muerto.
Near Socorro is the crossroads town of San Antonio, now famous for its Owl Bar and renowned chile cheeseburgers. Prior to I-25, it was a wide spot in the road on the intersection of old Highway 85 and US 380. Back in 1939, one J.E. Miera was running his store and renting out cabins with the only phone and gas pumps in town. His competitor was a Norwegian immigrant, Augustus Halvorson Hilton who, with his German wife, Mary Genevieve (nee Laufersweiler), ran a mercantile and hotel.
Gus Hilton's establishment burned to the ground in 1940. Miero purchased the wooden bar that had been rescued from the wreckage of Hilton's establishment. He thought he might need it some day.
Lo and behold, a few years later, Miera was renting his cabins to a circumspect, mysterious bunch that claimed to be "prospectors," buying up his gas and constantly tying up his phones. And, lest we get ahead of the story, he found a use for the bar he rescued from Hilton's establishment.
Wait a minute - spring 1945, there was a bloody war going on. What were this mysterious bunch of grown men - they surely must be draft dodgers - doing in the middle of nowhere, at the end of the Jornada del Muerto, wasting manpower and rationed gas, looking for rocks and constantly tying up his phones?
Next week: Jornada del Muerto, hotels, nuclear physicists, and chile cheeseburgers.
- John Waelti's column appears in the Times every Friday. He can be reached at jjwaelti1@tds.net.
