A Little Sacred

By Rebecca Powell, 6-13-08

	"A" Mountain in evening

The dog, the boy and the Sherpani backpack are loaded. Amos Lee’s “Black River” plays, “Gonna take my cares, gonna carry my cares, gonna take my cares away” as we make the fifteen minute drive to “A” Mountain. The boy holds his chocolate. I rest my feet on the dash while my husband and Amos harmonize. We are in a race with night, hoping to make the quick climb up the mountain before it is too dark to make our way back down.

“A” Mountain is also called Tortugas Mountain, sacred to Tortutgas Pueblo. From the south, it looks like a lumbering turtle inching across the desert.  Small and rocky, the limestone mountain stands alone in front of the Organs, a hill burped up from long ago crashing fault lines.  Cacti, yucca, and ocotillo line the eastern side, while black gramma and bluestem on the western side remember when Chiuhuahuan Desert was mostly grasslands.  Mountain bike and hiking trails scar the sides and base. A few dish antennas line the top and New Mexico State University’s solar panels are visible in every direction. Yet it is quiet and a dirt road runs steep and wide to the top. The boy can make the mile walk to the top on his sturdy two-year-old legs before needing the shoulders of parents, so we come often to this squatty hill.

Night is my favorite time in Las Cruces. I like morning when the world rustle ups to meet another day and the sun bursts over the Organs, but it is the quiet of night and multi-colored sky that make me believe in the state’s corny motto “Land of Enchantment.” The sun sets, painting the sky the famous pink and purple, and the heat of the 100 plus degree days fades. We’ll take the dirt road to the top and watch the sun throw up colors behind the Robledos. We’ll see jackrabbits and birds I have yet to learn to name. We go here because it’s quiet, because it’s close

The Tortugas climb this mountain in December, some barefoot, all in celebration of the Virgin Lady of Guadalupe. The tribe is small and does not have federal recognition. Long gone children travel hundreds of miles every December to make the climb.  They come saying this is part of their heritage. saying a rocky four mile walk from the Tortugas pueblo south of Las Cruces to the top of the mountain matters.  At the top a priest says a blessing, they light a fire, they eat.  On the way down dancers lead the procession.

Our climbs are not so orderly. The boy stops to pick up rocks, to bang on the iron rail supposedly discouraging him from diving face first into the cacti below. He will spend precious moments of daylight balancing on small boulders. We still bring the backpack, remembering when he was content to view the world from its confines.  No more. Hikes are now marathons of parental patience as our goals do not align.  I want to get to the top, to see the valley floor stretch out on all sides of me, let my eyes follow the green wake of the Rio Grande. My child, my child wants to enjoy right now, this moment. He has no hopes for panoramic views, balancing on a rock is enough of a thrill. We urge him onward and upward and he responds to our pleas with excited giggles and fast footfalls. Halfway up a sliver of moon appears. He points, says moon, demands we acknowledge this everyday miracle. That is what toddlers are good for, slowing you down, pointing out the miraculous in the mundane. They are not so good at adhering to the plan.

On every hike in ever locale, I want to make the top. I want the view, the feeling of accomplishment. Deidre Sklar in her book Dancing with the Virgin: Body and Faith in the Fiesta of Tortugas, New Mexico writes “Seeing panoramically [is] a way to switch away focus from oneself to God.” Up there at the top, something does happen. The land opens up before me, and I believe a thousand good things about all of life. For me, to see panoramically is to see the goodness I sometimes miss on the ground. I hike for that feeling of exhilaration, of openness. 

But almost two-year-olds change everything. 

We do not always make the top of a trail. We do not adhere to the plan. Our pace is slow and meandering. It involves pointing at the ocotillo, seeing the shape of a “horsey” in a rock, admiring the moon.  Instead of one big ta-da at the summit, our hikes are studded with a million surprised “wows.” The excited cries of an almost two-year-old do not overwhelm the quiet of the desert, not yet at least. They baptize the trail with a kind of wonder.

He is balancing on a rock, completely absorbed in the position of his feet.  I call him over.  “Sam. Sam, we’re climbing the spine of a turtle.” His eyes light up.  He smiles, “Wow.”

We do not make the top before night overtakes the sky, but I did see a little of the sacred.

For more like this, see BorderWest.

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