Crowbarred (pt. 7 of 10)
*Dear Reader,
My last post was in February 2025 and as of this writing it is now almost July. I know that’s too long, but perhaps you’ll cut me some slack, as I do have a pretty good reason: I was getting sober, which I am presently writing about and will publish on that subject very soon. In the meantime, for your summer reading enjoyment, I’m publishing a series of travel writings I made during a two-week RV trip with my wife and friends to the American southwest in August of 2023 that I originally posted on my social media accounts but have been asked to repost here. There’s a few references to my drinking, which obviously do not represent my present-day lifestyle, but that I left in for historical accuracy and for comedic and literary effect. I hope you enjoy reading these as much as I enjoyed living them, and then writing them.
Crowbarred
Aug. 16, 2023 (day 8): Denver to Taos. With our face-melting Red Rocks experience now behind us, we turned down the volume and shifted into New Mexico bliss-out mode, a state we all wanted to soak in, and had three days in three cities to do so. First was Taos, which has held a mystique for me since first hearing about its earthy, art-centric culture in my grungy-hippie 90’s incarnation. We arrived just as a wide, charcoal-colored cloud-blanket was moving in our direction, casting an ominous shadow like that giant alien ship in Independence Day. We quickly assembled the roll-out awning and huddled underneath, but only light rain came and soon passed. We got a tip from a campground passer-by that Orlando’s was the place to dine in town.
In the car, heading in the direction of Orlando’s, I turned to my right to behold a striking, bold rainbow and suddenly found my breath caught in my throat: this day just happened to be a few days after the 7th anniversary of my brother-in-law’s departure from this world and on the day that his oldest son, my nephew Jackson, was leaving for college. His widow, my sister, has always intuited that rainbows are a way he communicates with her from the other side. I had not before experienced this connection with him in that way but on this day, with my heart already crowbarred wide open by this magical trip and the palpable spiritual heartbeat of this sacred place at the foot of the Sangre De Christo Mountains, I felt him saying hello. 🌈🫀🙏🏼. This stirring moment soon dissolved into delight as Orlando’s frickin’ delivered with legit southwestern richness of flavors and a painting of Frida Kahlo depicting her as an 80’s punk with a Sex Pistols button on her motorcycle jacket. (Yeah, I can kinda see that.) Booker had a Frito pie there he enjoyed so much that he STILL won’t shut up about it.
The next morning we zipped out in the rental car to the Rio Grande Gorge Bridge, which was a whole scene- the massive spectacle itself, jewelry and art vendors in the parking lot, picnic areas and signs that read PLEASE DO NOT FEED THE BIGHORN SHEEP. The fabled Rio Grande appeared as just a trickle at the bottom of the huuuuge rocky chasm, and I felt like Tiny Elvis (YouTube it) next to this humbling natural expanse.
After pulling Sam away from the rock and gemstone vendor’s tent (a recurring event on this trip that became a “Whose turn is it?”-type situation), we toured the Taos Pueblo, one of the oldest continuously inhabited indigenous communities in North America and about the realest effin deal if you’re looking for native culture in Northern New Mexico. Our guide delivered rapid-fire historical context of the Pueblo that included a section describing the inexplicable religiously-inspired genocidal brutality of the conquistadors and the valiant resistance of the native people to defend themselves and their culture, which she prefaced with a a trigger warning for the sensitive whites assembled before her who might be upset by all that killing-talk. I seethed silently with shame for the arrogance of my ancestry and with rage on her behalf that she felt required to powder the bottoms of her delicate, privileged visitors.
I chose to carry this feeling with me, leaving space to also appreciate the adobe architecture and earthen textures around me. We entered one of the low-ceiling, mud-thatched structures to see the hand-made jewelry of a handsome, grinning older Indian fellow named Sonny Spruce who cracked jokes with a wink and dropped knowledge about how too much of a good thing can kill you, so balance is the key to a good life. He also had a photo on the wall of himself with Tommy Lee Jones, of which he seemed quite proud. His jewelry was gorgeous and I had to get out of there before I handed my wallet to him and ended up looking like a turquoised Mr. T.
Leaving the Pueblo with a reverent quiet, we traveled downtown toward the historic plaza and had lunch at Taos Brewing, who made a delicious Blood Orange Cider and a Rye IPA we had to take home with us. They had concerts at their main location, out near the gorge, and when I saw that reggae legends Black Uhuru were playing in a few weeks, I almost hid in the bathroom until my travel mates abandoned me there. We shopped the plaza with stores and booths that offered more southwest-inspired arts, crafts, jewelry and trinkets than I could take without maxing out our cards, and plus, we still had to get to Santa Fe, where we knew there would be infinitely more.
As a relative minimalist, and the son of a frugal Goodwill enthusiast, I try to follow an ethos of only buying things that I need for my survival or that bring me true joy. But I had found myself surrounded by what I realized was my material kryptonite, as ALL of it brought me joy. That’s when Sonny Spruce appeared to me on my shoulder, winking and whispering “Too much of a good thing…”. I got my almost-broke ass outta there, turning my attention to the golden sunlight, gentle breeze and the un-monetizable moment of being “out here”, breathing in and knowing it. It was enough.