Let me tell you at least a half dozen things about Graceland.
Owls live there. Probably great-horned owls. I’m not sure because I’ve not spied them yet through my binoculars, but once one flew over me at sunset, flying low with a soft swoosh of its grand wing span. I sat breathless letting the sound soak through me. I knew. That night the hoos started, and then another hoo answered, and I lay there listening to their conversation, back and forth, feeling like an eavesdropper as I drifted to sleep.
The winds can rock that 25’ trailer the same as they used to rock my Dad’s 25’ sailboat. Gusts make that big hunk of metal come alive, and when the air slips under the tin roof, the entire thing bellows. Chimes I hung outside pick up their clanging. The entire valley sounds like a giant is blowing into a bowl.
Coyotes claim this valley as home. Even in the dead of winter I crack the window in expectation of hearing their funny yips and yaps and occasional howls that say. . . what exactly? Food here! Come hither! Or, stay away! Or, this is our valley, our home! Blessed be!
The mountain is part of my archery practice. Fifty to 75’ from my target, I stand poised, arrow going from quiver to bow string, feathers smoothed, I turn to face the mountain. Tall, still, stately, I’m reminded to breathe deeply and not think, just be. Slowly my head turns to my target, I take aim, and release. Hold the stance, breathe out, suspend judgment. It’s not about where the arrow lands; it’s the practice of focus.
Hiking is easy at Graceland. I usually start with a stroll down to one of the roads in front of the trailer, looking at scattered bones, cleaned crisp from a night of coyotes. Once to the road I turn and wander straight either west or east, later to back track. I feel held in the bowl of the San Luis valley with mountain ranges all along the periphery. The wind sweeps across the grasses in the flatlands, horses roam wild, and red tail hawks hang suspended high in the sky, occasionally dipping in the currents.
Mornings are my favorite time. The trailer warms up as the sun rises, rays entering the windows to the east, right where the bed is. Often I have coffee ready to steep, wait for the water to heat, and soon have it steaming from my cup as I sit curled in a sunny spot in the corner of the bed. A book, a pen, and paper in hand, I wait to see who will show up/what story will appear. (http://www.storycatcher.net/)
We can arrive here at dusk, like we did last night, and slip into the trailer as easily as slipping on an old pair of favorite house shoes. It fits us just right and is oh, so welcoming cozy and an easy set-up.
An old Layton trailer on a spectacular spot where you can see 50 miles
straight into New
Mexico. I found the trailer on Craig’s List, “clean and in good condition.” The owner offered to deliver it even, yet once he arrived on our raw land he appeared stunned and uncomfortable. “Just leave it here? No water, no electricity, no road to travel?” I’m pretty sure he thought it was an awful waste of a damn good trailer.
Throw on a solar pane, keep the propane tanks filled, don’t forget to bring the water, add a porta-potty to the haul, and Graceland, as we are fond of calling our valley spread, becomes just that: graced land. Owl and coyote calls, forever views, and a bright stretch of the Milky Way all leave us speechless every single time we show up, distinctly special ways of reminding us, “Welcome home.”
Owls live there. Probably great-horned owls. I’m not sure because I’ve not spied them yet through my binoculars, but once one flew over me at sunset, flying low with a soft swoosh of its grand wing span. I sat breathless letting the sound soak through me. I knew. That night the hoos started, and then another hoo answered, and I lay there listening to their conversation, back and forth, feeling like an eavesdropper as I drifted to sleep.
The winds can rock that 25’ trailer the same as they used to rock my Dad’s 25’ sailboat. Gusts make that big hunk of metal come alive, and when the air slips under the tin roof, the entire thing bellows. Chimes I hung outside pick up their clanging. The entire valley sounds like a giant is blowing into a bowl.
Coyotes claim this valley as home. Even in the dead of winter I crack the window in expectation of hearing their funny yips and yaps and occasional howls that say. . . what exactly? Food here! Come hither! Or, stay away! Or, this is our valley, our home! Blessed be!
The mountain is part of my archery practice. Fifty to 75’ from my target, I stand poised, arrow going from quiver to bow string, feathers smoothed, I turn to face the mountain. Tall, still, stately, I’m reminded to breathe deeply and not think, just be. Slowly my head turns to my target, I take aim, and release. Hold the stance, breathe out, suspend judgment. It’s not about where the arrow lands; it’s the practice of focus.
Hiking is easy at Graceland. I usually start with a stroll down to one of the roads in front of the trailer, looking at scattered bones, cleaned crisp from a night of coyotes. Once to the road I turn and wander straight either west or east, later to back track. I feel held in the bowl of the San Luis valley with mountain ranges all along the periphery. The wind sweeps across the grasses in the flatlands, horses roam wild, and red tail hawks hang suspended high in the sky, occasionally dipping in the currents.
Mornings are my favorite time. The trailer warms up as the sun rises, rays entering the windows to the east, right where the bed is. Often I have coffee ready to steep, wait for the water to heat, and soon have it steaming from my cup as I sit curled in a sunny spot in the corner of the bed. A book, a pen, and paper in hand, I wait to see who will show up/what story will appear. (http://www.storycatcher.net/)
We can arrive here at dusk, like we did last night, and slip into the trailer as easily as slipping on an old pair of favorite house shoes. It fits us just right and is oh, so welcoming cozy and an easy set-up.
An old Layton trailer on a spectacular spot where you can see 50 miles
straight into NewMexico. I found the trailer on Craig’s List, “clean and in good condition.” The owner offered to deliver it even, yet once he arrived on our raw land he appeared stunned and uncomfortable. “Just leave it here? No water, no electricity, no road to travel?” I’m pretty sure he thought it was an awful waste of a damn good trailer.
Throw on a solar pane, keep the propane tanks filled, don’t forget to bring the water, add a porta-potty to the haul, and Graceland, as we are fond of calling our valley spread, becomes just that: graced land. Owl and coyote calls, forever views, and a bright stretch of the Milky Way all leave us speechless every single time we show up, distinctly special ways of reminding us, “Welcome home.”
thank you for reminding me what grace this land brings to our lives. I must return to my own space among the coyotes and red tail hawks, just a stones throw down the road from yours. soon, I hope.
ReplyDeleteMy Costilla county summer walks are touchstones in my daily urban experience, reminding me of "big" and "small" in both literal and metaphorical terms. And you have everything to do with that!
ReplyDeleteBecause of your autumn phone call back in 2003 that urged us to run out and get a NYTimes because the San Luis Valley was the cover of the travel section, we obeyed and quickly made plans to use that Thanksgiving break as a chance to travel from Houston to Colorado to check it out. We returned home having bought 11 affordable acres on which we now have a small off-grid cabin. Five years of traveling as we can to "the land" has opened up a new world of respect for our environment and the critters who survive in it.
And I have become a more humble creature, who tries as I might to reduce my footprints where I can, and a more spiritually aware creature, because in such glorious wonder, how can I not?