Pre-hike: Albuquerque

the universe points west

After cancer, after recovery, after returning to my life to walk through deep bogs and endless rain on the Appalachian Trail, all I really wanted was dry feet and clear skies.

So I headed to New Mexico.

It’s the only state I hadn’t hiked on the Continental Divide Trail and October is normally clear and cool, perfect backpacking weather. Besides, there are some neat little chunks of beauty between towns that are fairly easily accessed.

And it’s funny, once I placed that thought of walking out west into the universe and voiced my intention, things began to churn.

I’d been kicking myself a bit by leaving New England at prime leaf peeping season. What the heck was I thinking?! The New York Times poured salt in the wound by publishing an article the very day I returned to Saint Paul listing the best autumn viewing spots – #1 New Hampshire’s White Mountains #2 Vermont’s Green Mountains – argh!

But the final spot on the list was in a place where one could ride a tram at sunset to a 10,000-foot mountain with fall colors exploding on the way. #10 Sandia Peak in Albuquerque, New Mexico. WHAT?! Yes indeed, my friends, with all those aspen and scrub oak living at high altitudes, New Mexico, too, sports fall colors.

So my intentions were there and now the planning began. I checked in with my friend, the trail angel and LASH (Long Ass Section Hiker) Karl, who’s hiked all of New Mexico bit by bit. He offered up a pile of good advice, like which section is best, how I can get myself out to the start and where I might stay.

An engineer, his trail name is ‘Dispatch,’ apropos of his careful, almost obsessive planning down to the last detail. Which was good because it saved me a whole lot of digging around for information.

At this point, the plan was just to walk a portion of the CDT, but when I told my pal Kelly I was heading to New Mexico, the first words out of her mouth were to not to miss the Balloon Fiesta.

Balloon Fiesta?

Don’t you remember my tattoo?! Kelly and I walked the Wind River High Route together. One day, she rolled up her sleeve to show a large piece of body art depicting balloons gently floating in the sky against a backdrop of Sandia Peak herself. Kelly grew up in Albuquerque and made sure I’d find my way to “Dawn Patrol” and “Mass Ascension,” wonders as memorable and transformative as anything on trail.

OK, so fly to ABQ, spend the night, get to balloons by 5:30 am, take the tram up Sandia Peak at 5:00 pm, followed by the Greyhound at 10:15 out to Grants about 80 miles east.

This is going to be one a long day. How was I going to fill it?

Well, at church right before I left, a young flutist named Noah told me he had only just won a job with, wait for it, the New Mexico Philharmonic. Curious about his new gig, I looked up who he would be playing with and noticed one of my old rivals plays first flute – and an even older boyfriend plays first oboe. Hmmm, maybe those two will want to have coffee and talk about the old days…

luck on my side

This was definitely going to be one of those trips in which I’d have my fingers crossed tightly the whole time in hopes each bit went according to plan.

A lot of people ask how I can move so flexibly in and out of trails. When I’m required to be at a specific place at a specific time, I’ll purchase a plane ticket. When I have a bit of room to play with, I’ll nab a ticket with frequent flyer points, often earned with a one-year offer of a credit card. Sometimes that means reserving a ticket the day before or even the day of travel. Those last minute deals are cheaper and can usually be quickly changed.

My flights were (shockingly) right on schedule stress free. Per usual, I picked up a “throwaway” suitcase since my trekking poles have to be checked. Richard found one at Goodwill for $12 and I filled it tight with my food, tent, sleep system and warm clothes, taking only a lighted up backpack with me through town.

Once in Albuquerque, it’s an easy bus ride from the “Sunport” to the bus station downtown, a bit seedy and not entirely convenient. I could check my throw-away bag for 24 hours at Amtrak for $20 but I’d need to pick it up before 5:00 pm because that’s when they close the station, reopening around 9:00 pm for the busses.

At least I wouldn’t have to drag all my stuff to the Balloon Fiesta or around town, though there were still questions about that gap in the evening when I’d hoped to visit the peak. Would they allow a fully loaded backpack and trekking poles in such a tight space?

Well, not a worry now as I walked up Route 66 to the Downtown Inn, a no-frills, old-timey motel that felt safe enough even if I needed the chain to keep the door closed. The proprietress sent me across the street for a “World Famous” hot dog. I forgot how bad highly processed food tastes, though the burn-the-roof-of-my-mouth chili sauce masked that to some extent.

With a bit of belly-ache, I then walked to the historic Old Town, a set of adobe buildings displaying art from various levels of expertise amid a slew of Southwest tchotchke’s. I tasted and tried things, took pictures and watched flamenco dancers at the bandstand, but I couldn’t very well buy anything to take with me on trail.

Albuquerque has a decent bus line that, at the moment, is totally free. That does mean you share the ride with the un-housed and some odd characters. But again, I felt safe enough bussing to the University where I had a burrito and some of the best roasted peppers I’d ever tasted at Frontier Restaurant under a painting of John Wayne against a sunset in lurid oranges and reds.

I wandered over to the University and found myself in the art school, where I popped in on a senior show. It was just the artist and her family looking at slightly Edward Hopper-esque paintings. They were all quite interested in why I came to the show, then sent me off with a bottle of water to bus right back to the Inn.

absolute magic

My Uber driver arrived early, about 4:45 am, to take me to the northwest side of town. I ended up being in charge of navigating to the special drop off site and was amazed to see how laid back the spectacle is. Aside from checking the contents of my bag, there was not much holding me back from getting a breakfast burrito, New Mexico style, on fried bread then heading right into the action.

It had never occurred to me that we could just wander out on the 54 football fields of limp balloons to get up close and personal. I chatted up a woman to ask how one knows where they ought to place themselves to watch what’s called ‘Dawn Patrol.’ No sooner were the words out of my mouth, when the gas jets revved up, lighting up the sky to oooh’s and ahhh’s.

It’s a simple pleasure to watch this old-school sport, lovely but definitely not quiet with all those burps of gas plus whistle-blowing umpires pushing us aside once the balloon lifts. I was overcome by the shared energy of pure joy from the thousands of us spectators. Oftentimes it took time for the balloons to fill just right, especially if they were a character with a nose or ears or hands. The tension would build, until off they’d go, sent high by the whoops and screams of us left down here on earth.

I lingered for hours as the sun finally rose over the Sandia Mountains. Passing a chainsaw art demo, I retraced my steps and hitched a ride with two women to a nearby Cabela’s where I nabbed some camp-stove gas. A long-time flute rival from decades and a lifetime ago named Valerie Potter met me for coffee near the store and we talked shop non-stop.

Later on in this trip, I met her colleague, the oboe player Kevin Vigneau, an old boyfriend of mine who I quite literally travelled to the ends of the earth to visit in Capetown, South Africa about 40 years ago. I’m not entirely sure why it felt necessary to meet him this time around – closure? comparison? curiosity? Probably a bit of all three.

Valerie dropped me at Cocina Azul, another local favorite recommended by a different boyfriend from New Mexico (who I just realize now was someone I broke up with the date Kevin. Good Lord! Please remember folks, this was decades ago.)

Full and happy, I took my bus back to the Amtrak to retrieve my throwaway bag which I recommissioned to carry on my back, then walked to Burque Throwdown, a pottery school and “clay playhouse” owned by Tamara Righettini. I met her, her husband and dog at Colossal Cave in Arizona and she saved my butt when I misplaced all of my tent stakes, just happening to have an extra set. Also, when I needed to pick up my resupply box at the Visitor Center and discovered it was a mile straight up from camp, she suggested we hop on bikes and pick it up together.

Here in Albuquerque, while she worked expertly at a wheel, I smooshed my fingers into wet clay and rolled up a rattlesnake. Tamara rescued me again this time by my allowing me to leave my pack at the school while I head up to the Sandia Peak Tram.

I want to pause here to explain that the tram website posted a banner stating the tram runs Wednesday through Sunday only. Closed Monday and Tuesday. I would arrive in Albuquerque on a Tuesday, but figured I could get a ticket for Wednesday even if it wasn’t the most convenient time right before I needed to catch a bus.

Sneakily and without my knowing, the banner came down during Balloon Fiesta with a new one posted saying the tram was running every day and tickets were selling out fast. The catch was that I could only buy a ticket a day ahead of time. You might have already guessed that I stayed up until 12:00 am Mountain Time (1:00 am my time) Tuesday morning before flying out to make darn sure I got myself a ticket. Whew!

That early in the day, I had my pick of times choosing the 5:00 pm arrival, and I dutifully (and naively) ensured my Uber delivered me right at 5:00. Unfortunately, the place was overrun with a line curling over itself meaning at least a two-hour wait.

But luck was on my side again, when one carful far ahead in line needed a single rider to balance the weight. That would be me! It’s only a fifteen minute ride for three-miles up a diagonal, and vertigo-inducing, bi-cable especially as the car bucks and rocks over two towers in high wind. The cliffs turned orange and below I saw the aspens at peak color. Directly in front of us is Mount Taylor, which – if all would go well – I would be camping on the next evening.

Luck again reached out for me in meeting another brave soul on the landing platform trying to stay upright in the wild gusts while taking pictures. I discovered she’s from Wisconsin. After chit-chatting, I asked her if she might drive me back downtown. I’m not cheap and would happily take an Uber, but we were so far out of town, it would take a while for one to get to me, and time was running out to pick up my bag and get to the bus.

As it turned out, we made it on time, but the bus was delayed by 2 1/2 hours. No driver, sketchy patrons and abusive ticket agents made it a, shall-we-say, interesting end to the day but let’s not ruin this magical, sublime, fulfilling, rewarding, blissful day by complaining about just how ghastly, take-your-life-into-your-own-hands, horrible Greyhound has become.

The truth is, I eventually got to Grants, safe with only a little wear and tear, then slept a deep, dreamless, restful sleep, lingering over two breakfasts all the way up to the last minute before checkout time. Wearing my pack, I stuck out my thumb again for a ride to Mount Taylor trailhead and the astonishing 100-mile section that awaited me.