Seize the Day

Seize the Day

New Mexicans joke that this state is the land of “mañana,” and before I leave I am going to purchase my favorite T-shirt which has the slogan: “Carpe mañana.” However, now that my sojourn here is winding down to its last thirty days, I'm thinking more along the lines of the original Latin - “Carpe diem” and trying to take advantage of all the unique experiences Albuquerque has to offer.

First and foremost that means early morning bike rides along the “bosque,” the forested area of cottonwoods and native trees that runs along the Rio Grande about a quarter mile from my house. In this area of New Mexico the Rio Grande is not very impressive - “el rio no muy grande” (the river that is not very “grande”) is a family joke, but the ribbon of green that borders the river on either side is very impressive, a striking vision of green in a landscape that otherwise paints itself in muted tones of browns, yellows, and the darker blues and greys of the mountains.

At 7:00 a.m. with a cool breeze blowing across my face, it's just about the most wonderful thing I can imagine to bike along side the river and have the city disappear from view as the green space on either side and the gentle slope of the hills create the illusion that there are no housing developments over the horizon. A gentle curve brings me face to face with the Sandia Mountains, bathed in the soft light of the morning sunrise or cloud-covered as they are so often now in monsoon season.

A family of geese will waddle across the bike path; a rabbit will dart in front of me; or a road-runner disappear into the brush with a lizard in its mouth. Only once or twice have I seen a coyote, but I know they are there as well, waiting in the shadows.

For a brief hour I can imagine there really still is a “wilderness” in this metropolis of 600,000, and even when another biker or walker or roller-blader crosses my path, there is the pleasant exchange of “Good morning” or “Passing on your left,” followed by “Thanks” and a wave.

I kick myself for not having discovered this pleasure when I first arrive, for letting the goat thorns that deflated my tires, or the homesickness that made any sight of the desert unwelcome, keep me from the pleasures of speeding or strolling along a path that brings me in view of all the beauties Albuquerque has to offer while conveniently obscuring its urban sprawl.

Thoughts of Spring

Thoughts of Spring

Okay, so it's a bit past the actual vernal equinox, but Spring never follows the calendar in my experience. It is that most capricious of seasons -- here one day, gone the next -- as if the weather can't make up its mind whether it wants to be blizzarding, blustery or merely gently breezy.

When I was growing up in Michigan, it seemed as if Spring only lasted about two days. We'd have the occasional unexpected snowstorm in April and then a few days when the crocuses peeped out and the lilacs bloomed, and suddenly by Memorial Day, the hot, humid days of summer were in full force.

In northern California where I lived for many years, Spring usually arrives in February with rain and wildflowers and a green so intense you'd think the hills behind Stanford University had been transported from the Emerald Isles. I used to live for those weeks, going outside with sinuses inflamed, sneezing, and with pounding temples, just to enjoy the greenery I knew would have disappeared by the summer dry season.

Here in the New Mexico Spring is more of a conundrum. It's the driest, windiest, and sometimes downright unpleasant season of the year, especially when the wind blows hard enough to kick up clouds of dust so large that cars turn on their headlights in the daytime.

It seems like a small miracle to see the small green leaves on the cottonwoods, the forsythia in golden abundance, and the lilacs starting to bloom when no rain has fallen for months, and the few thin clouds that pass overhead seem to mock us with moisture that remains tantalizingly out of reach.

Fortunately, I live in an area along the river, where families have enjoyed the right to take water from the Rio Grande through a maze of irrigation ditches for hundreds of years. It's the river that saves Spring here, generating a swath of green along its meandering path for miles and miles.

But I am determined to help things along as much as possible so I sow my wildflowers, and plant my first hardy perennials and water by hand until I finally see the ditch fill up and coordinate with neighbors when it's time to open the gates and let my backyard flood.

It's one of the great pleasures of my home that even though I'm technically inside the city limits, I feel as if I were still in the countryside. If I walk a few hundred yards along the irrigation ditch – I run into pigs, geese, ducks, chickens, and goats, as well as horses and fields of hay grown to support them.

Less than a mile away there's an organic farm that grows produce and fields of lavender. Across the road there's a field that when flooded attracts Canadian geese, sandhill cranes, and the occasional pheasant. If you want to encounter more exotic fowl, you just have to drive along another road to find a nearly suicidal flock of peahens and their resident peacock, who is much more cautious about dashing into the road in front of passing vehicles than his female counterparts. The speed limit there is 25 mph, but most people go a lot slower; no one wants to have to carry the body of a deceased peahen to its angry owner.

So for now, while we wait for the monsoon season to arrive and enjoy the windy but mild weather of April, I'll draw on the bounty of the Rio Grande and watch the slow greening of the high desert along its banks.