The Old Santa Fe Trail, Part 2: Them Thar Hills

The drive from Carlsbad to Ruidoso might be well-described as rewarding. By that I mean that the further you drive, the lovelier the setting becomes. When you set out just outside of Carlsbad, most of the road signs indicate one of two things: an approaching landfill or an approaching prison. This is especially marvelous when you observe the amount of garbage that appears not to have made it into a landfill, but is instead sitting in someone's yard while a cow eats some dirt nearby. About half an hour outside of Ruidoso the road wends through the Pecos River Valley, cottonwoods crop up along the riverbank, and charming classic cars even ensconce themselves in front of antique storefronts, as in the case of the cherry Austin-Healey we saw in Tinnie, NM.

As my poor little 4Runner chugged into Ruidoso, which was teeming with tourists, by the way, Will and I took note of a couple of restaurants amid the schlock shops (which abound in downtown Ruidoso). We then checked into our home for the evening, the Shadow Mountain Inn ("a place for couples," says the sign). We unloaded my bags and then, being the chubby Americans that we are, drove .7 miles back into town to find a place to eat. We settled on the Dreamcatcher, largely because it had a patio and beer signs.

We are simple folk.

Not as simple, however, as our waiter. His tiny brain forgot Will's beer three times, forgot my lettuce and tomato for my sandwich, forgot our water, forgot to bring our food after he said it would be "right out," forgot Will's second beer, forgot our check. Mercifully, Will had cash so we were spared from watching him struggle with how to use the credit card machine, if, in fact he could locate it. I'm confident it would have been similar to watching this kitten stuck in a ball, but less adorable:

 The high point of our meal (not the meal itself, which was hugely fine) was solving the riddle wrapped in an enigma seen in the picture below:

I refer, of course, to the delicate flower in the bottom left of the frame. Clearly this is a person (lady? gentleman?) who knows how to roll hair, and also how to wear a set of pearls. I wanted deeply for it to be a drag queen, but closer inspection indicated that it was, regretably, probably a woman. Life is full of disappointments.

After lunch, we went back to the hotel and puzzled for some time over what to do with ourselves next. All the forests were shut down because of wildfire danger, which pretty much axed our plans of a hike. Life thwarts my attempts to exercise at every turn. We considered a visit to the historic frontier town of Lincoln, frequented by this dandy:

He looks like a rapier wit, no? Well, apparently he shot some people and that was the end of him. Young folks.

We opted to forego Lincoln in favor of a stroll around town topped off by a few frosty ones. Our ambulations took us mostly through a neighborhood of log cabins, but one resident had a sense of decorating panache that I have rarely, if ever, seen equalled. Have a look see.

A wizard nailed to a tree? Check. Approaching tiger on a painted wooden panel? Check. LANDSCAPING PLANTER FILLED WITH BOWLING BALLS? Double-check. So much more. This house is like a Dali painting for hill people.

Tomorrow on the blog I'll discuss Taos and Santa Fe. Hippies ask the same question twice, Woody Harrellson stares us down from a Prius, and Will gets spit on by a hobo!

I promise to begin discussing life in the dorms as well. Fear not; graduate school obscurity approaches!