A few minutes on craigslist, at the hostel, suggests that some unusually low rents can be found here. And, as one might imagine, they're mostly out on the Mesa. The high open space west of town, stretching along both sides of the Rio Grande Gorge, has been the subject of a couple of indie films and the object of some pretty intense feelings, positive and otherwise. I haven't spent much time out there, but I know it's got a reputation among some for being the sort of place that nobody in their right mind would choose to live. But then, right-minded people are the sort I've been edging away from all my life. I've got DIYers and back-to-the-landers in my family history, and more and more in my circle of admired acquaintances and chosen family. This desolate stretch of earth might just offer some common ground.
I head northwest from the traffic light that marks the city's edge. The two most interesting rentals are across the Gorge in an area known as Tres Orejas, or "Three Ears". The name is a fun co-incident with the e.e. cummings poem a friend sent me this morning for my birthday, which ends with this proclamation/invocation:
(now the ears of my ears awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened)
And they do feel opened. Already, in fact, the moment wheels hit highway at my own city's limits, the mind's more subtle frequencies crackled into life. This happens on most roadtrips: normally invisible antennae go up at the first sense of unobstructed space. Optimism reboots. Long-sought words abruptly clarify into conciseness. Strands of poem find their way to paper. Internal arguments (with others, with self) are suddenly and simply resolved. Always, this leaves me wondering what would happen if I just left home once a week. Going anywhere. And what about living out on open land, truly free of all those blocking influences and distractions? Could this snowmelt of frozen insight be coaxed into a constantly flowing stream? Could I irrigate intuition, cultivate voice and thought-freedom as the norm instead of an occasional privilege? And could I open up not just third eye but also a third ear to these quiet voices, if I lived in a place called Tres Orejas?
Late morning sun gilds sage and chamisa. Out here, the last snowfall's already melted. The West Rim of the mesa is a smooth, very gentle slope of nothing but knee-high plants and dust. Trees don't grow here, and the view for 20 miles east to the wall of sacred, white-summited peaks is unobstructed. Even the Gorge disappears quickly into the immense flatness. If you don't look to your left as you drive the razor-straight county road south from the Bridge, you could forget there's an 800-foot drop right over there. Only squinting westward do you see any green at all in the landscape: turning onto one of the side roads which begins to climb the hill of Ears, a few scattered junipers begin to relieve the monochromatic dazzle of gold on gold. This looks almost livable...
Real estate ad for the West Rim: "For Sale by Owner. Wide Open Skies."
POWER: No. must use alternate source
PHONE: No. some cells work
WATER: No. Must install well, if/when you build
SEWER: No. Must install septic, if/when you build
ROADS: dirt
RVs, Mobile Homes, and Modulars are allowed. Distant Mountain views. No restrictions
And the settlers out here have taken that last clause to heart. The tiny homesteads that I pass are crafted out of plywood, hand-molded adobe, recycled tin, and (once in a while) more conventional materials. They are old school buses with woodstove chimneys, or a pair of ancient mobile homes stuck together in a sort of windbreak. Many are unfinished. A few tiny structures look barely big enough for one person to lie down in. Each side road -- a weaving pair of muddy ruts -- is named with a unique hand-made sign. Most have animal names: Toad Road, Raven's Reach, Oso. Somebody with a dry sense of humor lives on "Ocean Shore Drive". Each road leads to no more than 4 or 5 miniature houses, with plenty of vacant space between them.
More online reading reveals that land prices on the West Rim are lower than any I've seen, anywhere. Sales of quarter-acre lots seem common. A website affirms that "This land is free and clear of all liens and encumbrances." Another site notes that the area has a population density of 9.8 persons per square mile. Free and clear, indeed. Though this information rekindles the lifetime dream, almost lost, of owning a little piece of earth somewhere, I know that there has to be a challenging face to the freedom of this particular piece. One person's conscious anarchism is another's unhealthy chaos. While the spaciousness and the simplicity are lovely, and open ground dominates the view, I can also see piles of trash, junked cars, and dogs running loose. There's a freebox full of clothes, and a handmade community bulletin board -- definite signs of life -- but also road signs and old refrigerators that have been used for target practice. I wonder if my dream of intimacy with earth and silence would find commonality in a place such as this, after all.
Of the two houses-for-rent that I'm looking for, I find one. Its context, and the 3-mile rib-jarring road, cross it firmly off the wishlist. I drive back into town in the afternoon slantlight with a head full of questions.
At the Brewery halfway back to town, they're having "bluegrass jam night". I want to see how the locals live; I'm especially curious now about the mesa-dwellers in their isolation, who must surely be drawn to a friendly place like this one. A guy walks by my table, and starts a conversation. Turns out he lives on the first road I drove up today. "You must have passed by my house, then...it's small, mostly cob, with a round window on the south side..." "Well, that could be quite a few houses out there", I laugh. But he's got some interesting perspective to offer. He's not from New Mexico. He's probably about my age. He's obviously intelligent. He came out here on purpose, and did his homework on the off-grid life, before buying into it.
He's lived six years on the Mesa, and isn't entirely happy with the experience. The West Rim, he informs me, is locally known as "the open-air asylum". The land exposed to the elements, the hardships of life without normally-expected city services (as the ads pointed out, there are no water, sewer or electrical lines), the difficulty of access. And the population of people who just don't fit anywhere else: veterans, the very poor, and those whose disabilities (or perhaps just their idealism) make it hard for them to find a place in "normal society". It can get intense, he smiles. And as if that wasn't enough, many residents don't have cars. He often meets them hitchhiking into town, or walking back from the highway, loaded down with packs full of a week's worth of groceries. So add claustrophobia to the mix, for those who get there and then can't leave. And for all those, surely, who have given up hope of finding a home anywhere else.
Though the area seems to fall outside of regular county maintenance, its residents aren't entirely free of the "system". He was reprimanded recently by the county for building without a permit. "They pick on me because I'm one of the ones close enough to the road to see", he says wryly. Is it really worth it, then? I ask him. His response doesn't give me a conclusive answer. "People can make do with a lot of things...If you're sitting inside with a book you like, I guess it doesn't really matter where you are...I do miss biking, though. You just can't do that out here."
And, it occurs, maybe you can't just "drop out" anymore, either. Probably the places where that's an option are precious few, in the world and surely in this country. Tres Orejas was most likely "free and clear" for the first dozen settlers. Now, maybe not so much.
I'm glad this place exists, problematic though it may be. Of course I want there to be places where society's "misfits" are welcome. Most of my involvement in communities has been an affirmation of that belief. And I'm excited to learn that land is anywhere within the reach of more than the very wealthy. I would imagine most who move to the Mesa come prepared to rough it, and maybe even to open their lives to a more chaotic atmosphere than they would've had in the city. But does committing to an essentially -- and, in some respects, intentionally -- impoverished community have to mean entering a pact of shared suffering as well?
I think of my favorite aunt and uncle, who have spent the last 30 years in a hundred-year-old cabin up a dirt road in the foothills of the northern Colorado Rockies. They live with extreme care and simplicity, without running water, with an outhouse out back, chopping wood for the stove. They also grow a lush garden along the creek, keep a few cattle, and work satisfying jobs close to home. They've raised two of the most capable and well-adjusted young men -- my cousins -- that I've had the privilege to know, and thrive at the center of a vibrant and fine-humored community of "up the canyon" folks. They've got it made, in my view. They and their neighbors, many of whom also live without the utilities and the comforts most in this country take for granted. In visits to their home, I've been delighted at the mutual support and creativity that joins the neighbors and keeps them healthy as a community. Not content with only the typical neighborly acts of shared meals or work parties, they've created regular social events such as "Train Wreck" (young single guitarist living in a renovated caboose -- still painted red -- invites anyone with an instrument, talent and/or a six-pack to come over and jam once a week)...and "Windmill School" (another guy who's learned to build home wind generators in a steam-powered machine shop invites people to come and learn to make their own). Over the years they've put together a volunteer fire department and a PTA for the formerly one-room school, which has grown to accommodate all their kids. I've even heard them refer to an elaborate (and tongue-in-cheek) social caste structure based on which of various upper and lower side-canyons the neighbors call home. Living off-the-grid with such an off-the-wall approach surely mitigates many of its hardships. I can't help but wonder if the Taos landers have organized or self-started in any of these ways, or if they've found it possible to laugh together and create shared celebrations, in spite of their likely diversity of lives and struggles.
For now, I let go of the idea of dropping out here in Taos any time soon, after joining the day's questionable inputs with the evening's uncertain evaluation of the Mesa. But I hope to go back and tune in again: see what's to be learned from this very original place. Maybe I'll find some more locals to talk with. Maybe I'll close my eyes, with all of their preconceptions formed within and without about how we can live, and find a way to hear what the land itself tells me it has to offer. There are understandings here that I've been years in search of, whether they fit with this place or go in the pack to be carried elsewhere. I can't see where all these pieces fit into the picture of a life, and that's alright. For now, I'm all ears.
And the settlers out here have taken that last clause to heart. The tiny homesteads that I pass are crafted out of plywood, hand-molded adobe, recycled tin, and (once in a while) more conventional materials. They are old school buses with woodstove chimneys, or a pair of ancient mobile homes stuck together in a sort of windbreak. Many are unfinished. A few tiny structures look barely big enough for one person to lie down in. Each side road -- a weaving pair of muddy ruts -- is named with a unique hand-made sign. Most have animal names: Toad Road, Raven's Reach, Oso. Somebody with a dry sense of humor lives on "Ocean Shore Drive". Each road leads to no more than 4 or 5 miniature houses, with plenty of vacant space between them.
More online reading reveals that land prices on the West Rim are lower than any I've seen, anywhere. Sales of quarter-acre lots seem common. A website affirms that "This land is free and clear of all liens and encumbrances." Another site notes that the area has a population density of 9.8 persons per square mile. Free and clear, indeed. Though this information rekindles the lifetime dream, almost lost, of owning a little piece of earth somewhere, I know that there has to be a challenging face to the freedom of this particular piece. One person's conscious anarchism is another's unhealthy chaos. While the spaciousness and the simplicity are lovely, and open ground dominates the view, I can also see piles of trash, junked cars, and dogs running loose. There's a freebox full of clothes, and a handmade community bulletin board -- definite signs of life -- but also road signs and old refrigerators that have been used for target practice. I wonder if my dream of intimacy with earth and silence would find commonality in a place such as this, after all.
Of the two houses-for-rent that I'm looking for, I find one. Its context, and the 3-mile rib-jarring road, cross it firmly off the wishlist. I drive back into town in the afternoon slantlight with a head full of questions.
At the Brewery halfway back to town, they're having "bluegrass jam night". I want to see how the locals live; I'm especially curious now about the mesa-dwellers in their isolation, who must surely be drawn to a friendly place like this one. A guy walks by my table, and starts a conversation. Turns out he lives on the first road I drove up today. "You must have passed by my house, then...it's small, mostly cob, with a round window on the south side..." "Well, that could be quite a few houses out there", I laugh. But he's got some interesting perspective to offer. He's not from New Mexico. He's probably about my age. He's obviously intelligent. He came out here on purpose, and did his homework on the off-grid life, before buying into it.
He's lived six years on the Mesa, and isn't entirely happy with the experience. The West Rim, he informs me, is locally known as "the open-air asylum". The land exposed to the elements, the hardships of life without normally-expected city services (as the ads pointed out, there are no water, sewer or electrical lines), the difficulty of access. And the population of people who just don't fit anywhere else: veterans, the very poor, and those whose disabilities (or perhaps just their idealism) make it hard for them to find a place in "normal society". It can get intense, he smiles. And as if that wasn't enough, many residents don't have cars. He often meets them hitchhiking into town, or walking back from the highway, loaded down with packs full of a week's worth of groceries. So add claustrophobia to the mix, for those who get there and then can't leave. And for all those, surely, who have given up hope of finding a home anywhere else.
Though the area seems to fall outside of regular county maintenance, its residents aren't entirely free of the "system". He was reprimanded recently by the county for building without a permit. "They pick on me because I'm one of the ones close enough to the road to see", he says wryly. Is it really worth it, then? I ask him. His response doesn't give me a conclusive answer. "People can make do with a lot of things...If you're sitting inside with a book you like, I guess it doesn't really matter where you are...I do miss biking, though. You just can't do that out here."
And, it occurs, maybe you can't just "drop out" anymore, either. Probably the places where that's an option are precious few, in the world and surely in this country. Tres Orejas was most likely "free and clear" for the first dozen settlers. Now, maybe not so much.
I'm glad this place exists, problematic though it may be. Of course I want there to be places where society's "misfits" are welcome. Most of my involvement in communities has been an affirmation of that belief. And I'm excited to learn that land is anywhere within the reach of more than the very wealthy. I would imagine most who move to the Mesa come prepared to rough it, and maybe even to open their lives to a more chaotic atmosphere than they would've had in the city. But does committing to an essentially -- and, in some respects, intentionally -- impoverished community have to mean entering a pact of shared suffering as well?
I think of my favorite aunt and uncle, who have spent the last 30 years in a hundred-year-old cabin up a dirt road in the foothills of the northern Colorado Rockies. They live with extreme care and simplicity, without running water, with an outhouse out back, chopping wood for the stove. They also grow a lush garden along the creek, keep a few cattle, and work satisfying jobs close to home. They've raised two of the most capable and well-adjusted young men -- my cousins -- that I've had the privilege to know, and thrive at the center of a vibrant and fine-humored community of "up the canyon" folks. They've got it made, in my view. They and their neighbors, many of whom also live without the utilities and the comforts most in this country take for granted. In visits to their home, I've been delighted at the mutual support and creativity that joins the neighbors and keeps them healthy as a community. Not content with only the typical neighborly acts of shared meals or work parties, they've created regular social events such as "Train Wreck" (young single guitarist living in a renovated caboose -- still painted red -- invites anyone with an instrument, talent and/or a six-pack to come over and jam once a week)...and "Windmill School" (another guy who's learned to build home wind generators in a steam-powered machine shop invites people to come and learn to make their own). Over the years they've put together a volunteer fire department and a PTA for the formerly one-room school, which has grown to accommodate all their kids. I've even heard them refer to an elaborate (and tongue-in-cheek) social caste structure based on which of various upper and lower side-canyons the neighbors call home. Living off-the-grid with such an off-the-wall approach surely mitigates many of its hardships. I can't help but wonder if the Taos landers have organized or self-started in any of these ways, or if they've found it possible to laugh together and create shared celebrations, in spite of their likely diversity of lives and struggles.
For now, I let go of the idea of dropping out here in Taos any time soon, after joining the day's questionable inputs with the evening's uncertain evaluation of the Mesa. But I hope to go back and tune in again: see what's to be learned from this very original place. Maybe I'll find some more locals to talk with. Maybe I'll close my eyes, with all of their preconceptions formed within and without about how we can live, and find a way to hear what the land itself tells me it has to offer. There are understandings here that I've been years in search of, whether they fit with this place or go in the pack to be carried elsewhere. I can't see where all these pieces fit into the picture of a life, and that's alright. For now, I'm all ears.
