Dawn in Tucumcari, New Mexico and it's chillier than usual on a February morning. But the sun is shining brightly and the air is clean and crisp. I check out of the Route 66 Motel and toss my gear into the GMC.
The main drag of old Tucumcari is a couple miles long. It was a major stop on historic Route 66, and still is on I-40. I roll past remaining 50s-style motels and can't help reminiscing on what it must have been like in the 50s: a prosperous business district with drive-in hamburger joints, teeming with Chevys, Fords, Studebakers and Hudsons. It's an era long gone, replete with nostalgic memories.
I like to try new places when traveling, but I'm still faithful to old stand-bys, such as the Pow Wow Inn where I enjoy their huevos rancheros. Back when I was head of the Ag Econ Department at NMSU, I often frequented the Pow Wow when traveling that neck of the woods.
Every state has a state bird, state song, etc. New Mexico has an official state question: "red or green?" referring to whether you prefer red or green chile sauce with your entrée. They're both sumptuous, but I order green chile with my huevos rancheros.
For the uninitiated, chili with an "i" refers to a dish such as chili con carne. Chile with an "e" refers to the plant and the sauce, green made from the green pod or red from the ripened chile pod. I get hungry just thinking about it.
Huevos rancheros - eggs, sunny side up, of course, drenched in green chile sauce, served with lettuce, salsa, and refried beans, all on top of a tortilla - and some hot coffee satisfies my cravings for a little while.
Leaving Tucumcari, I hit I-40 for the 50-minute drive to Santa Rosa. Then south on U.S. 54 through rolling range country to Vaughn. The short-range grass is its usual winter golden brown in the bright sunlight. The landscape is dotted by occasional windmills with their adjoining water tanks for the cattle.
Vaughn is soon on the horizon and a long train, seeming like it must be a mile long, rolls past that sleepy town that has a railroad station and a mile- long stretch of motels, restaurants, gas stations and dilapidated structures of various description.
After passing through Vaughn, it's a long stretch south across broken range country speckled with scrub pine and juniper. There is an occasional herd of cattle, and even some antelope if one watches closely. It's peaceful, open country down through Corona, then another long stretch down to Carrizozo.
At Carrizozo I usually stop at the Outpost for a green chile cheeseburger, or at Roy's ice cream parlor, with old-fashioned soda fountain. I'm not hungry enough for a green chile cheeseburger, so I opt for Roy's ice cream parlor. Roy asks why it has been so long since he has seen me. The last time I rolled through there, he was closed. Roy tells me he hasn't been feeling too well lately. He might close the shop, and he has no prospect to take it over. That will be another lost relic of bygone days.
I hit the road again, another hour to Tularosa, then 20 minutes to Alamogordo. I turn right on U.S. 70, past Holloman Air Force Base and skirt the edge of the White Sands that glisten in the sunlight. Then it's a 40-mile stretch across the White Sands Missile Range to the Organ Mountains.
It's a long, winding climb up the east side of the Organs, now in shadow of the late afternoon sun. Atop St. Augustine Pass, elevation 5,719 feet, it's suddenly out of the shadows and into the glare of the late afternoon sun. Las Cruces and the Mesilla Valley are visible far below. The valley floor is a hazy golden brown, bathed in winter sunshine.
U.S. 70 winds down the west side of the Organs to flat desert country. Then it's another 20 miles to the valley floor and Las Cruces, home of New Mexico State University. I roll through familiar streets, reaching Avenida de Mesilla that leads to old Mesilla.
I turn on Calle de Santiago and cross the plaza, the site of treaty signing that added the Gadsden Purchase to America in 1854. The plaza is an idyllic, restful place, even with all the tourists. But the tourists are gone at this hour. I turn right on Picacho, then a left on Calle de Los Huertos, and into the driveway of my adobe.
After checking in with my tenant, I unload my gear and my WWII books into the guesthouse and hope that the pilot light is still on for the water heater. I open the door to the cubicle, brush aside the cobwebs and turn up the dial. What a relief; a whoosh as the flame kicks up. I'll have hot water on this chilly evening.
I stroll over to Andale's for a Mexican dinner. They have a salsa bar where you can sample a half dozen different salsas with your tortilla chips. It's Friday evening and the place is packed. But the waitress finds me a table, and the chile stew (green) is terrific.
Strolling back across the plaza to my adobe, I'm thinking that tomorrow I'll call some of my old pals. I have a draft of my next column, on the invasion of Iwo Jima, but it needs polishing before I submit it.
I rig up a bed of sorts on the cot, turn on the space heater (geez, I can't seem to get away from the cold this winter) and take that book on the Pacific campaign to bed with me. I've got to figure out the sequence of that Atomic Vets series.
- Monroe resident John Waelti can be reached at jjwaelti1@tds.net.
The main drag of old Tucumcari is a couple miles long. It was a major stop on historic Route 66, and still is on I-40. I roll past remaining 50s-style motels and can't help reminiscing on what it must have been like in the 50s: a prosperous business district with drive-in hamburger joints, teeming with Chevys, Fords, Studebakers and Hudsons. It's an era long gone, replete with nostalgic memories.
I like to try new places when traveling, but I'm still faithful to old stand-bys, such as the Pow Wow Inn where I enjoy their huevos rancheros. Back when I was head of the Ag Econ Department at NMSU, I often frequented the Pow Wow when traveling that neck of the woods.
Every state has a state bird, state song, etc. New Mexico has an official state question: "red or green?" referring to whether you prefer red or green chile sauce with your entrée. They're both sumptuous, but I order green chile with my huevos rancheros.
For the uninitiated, chili with an "i" refers to a dish such as chili con carne. Chile with an "e" refers to the plant and the sauce, green made from the green pod or red from the ripened chile pod. I get hungry just thinking about it.
Huevos rancheros - eggs, sunny side up, of course, drenched in green chile sauce, served with lettuce, salsa, and refried beans, all on top of a tortilla - and some hot coffee satisfies my cravings for a little while.
Leaving Tucumcari, I hit I-40 for the 50-minute drive to Santa Rosa. Then south on U.S. 54 through rolling range country to Vaughn. The short-range grass is its usual winter golden brown in the bright sunlight. The landscape is dotted by occasional windmills with their adjoining water tanks for the cattle.
Vaughn is soon on the horizon and a long train, seeming like it must be a mile long, rolls past that sleepy town that has a railroad station and a mile- long stretch of motels, restaurants, gas stations and dilapidated structures of various description.
After passing through Vaughn, it's a long stretch south across broken range country speckled with scrub pine and juniper. There is an occasional herd of cattle, and even some antelope if one watches closely. It's peaceful, open country down through Corona, then another long stretch down to Carrizozo.
At Carrizozo I usually stop at the Outpost for a green chile cheeseburger, or at Roy's ice cream parlor, with old-fashioned soda fountain. I'm not hungry enough for a green chile cheeseburger, so I opt for Roy's ice cream parlor. Roy asks why it has been so long since he has seen me. The last time I rolled through there, he was closed. Roy tells me he hasn't been feeling too well lately. He might close the shop, and he has no prospect to take it over. That will be another lost relic of bygone days.
I hit the road again, another hour to Tularosa, then 20 minutes to Alamogordo. I turn right on U.S. 70, past Holloman Air Force Base and skirt the edge of the White Sands that glisten in the sunlight. Then it's a 40-mile stretch across the White Sands Missile Range to the Organ Mountains.
It's a long, winding climb up the east side of the Organs, now in shadow of the late afternoon sun. Atop St. Augustine Pass, elevation 5,719 feet, it's suddenly out of the shadows and into the glare of the late afternoon sun. Las Cruces and the Mesilla Valley are visible far below. The valley floor is a hazy golden brown, bathed in winter sunshine.
U.S. 70 winds down the west side of the Organs to flat desert country. Then it's another 20 miles to the valley floor and Las Cruces, home of New Mexico State University. I roll through familiar streets, reaching Avenida de Mesilla that leads to old Mesilla.
I turn on Calle de Santiago and cross the plaza, the site of treaty signing that added the Gadsden Purchase to America in 1854. The plaza is an idyllic, restful place, even with all the tourists. But the tourists are gone at this hour. I turn right on Picacho, then a left on Calle de Los Huertos, and into the driveway of my adobe.
After checking in with my tenant, I unload my gear and my WWII books into the guesthouse and hope that the pilot light is still on for the water heater. I open the door to the cubicle, brush aside the cobwebs and turn up the dial. What a relief; a whoosh as the flame kicks up. I'll have hot water on this chilly evening.
I stroll over to Andale's for a Mexican dinner. They have a salsa bar where you can sample a half dozen different salsas with your tortilla chips. It's Friday evening and the place is packed. But the waitress finds me a table, and the chile stew (green) is terrific.
Strolling back across the plaza to my adobe, I'm thinking that tomorrow I'll call some of my old pals. I have a draft of my next column, on the invasion of Iwo Jima, but it needs polishing before I submit it.
I rig up a bed of sorts on the cot, turn on the space heater (geez, I can't seem to get away from the cold this winter) and take that book on the Pacific campaign to bed with me. I've got to figure out the sequence of that Atomic Vets series.
- Monroe resident John Waelti can be reached at jjwaelti1@tds.net.
