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OC2-70 Reunion V
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Here is the first batch of photos from Santa Fe. Click to see the full size version. If you have any good shots, send them to me and I'll post them. (Thanks to Bob Harper, Jack Easterling and Jim Debesis).
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High Road to Taos I woke up around 11:00 AM, on a bus, along the high road to Taos. I think I might have been a bit homesick, maybe even slightly depressed, missing the lush green of Florida, the moisturizing humidity and tropical breezes that always seem to carry the songs of birds and the scent of flowers. But there I was, riding along a rural, high desert road, periodically applying lib balm, and starring at what seemed a barren landscape. To me it was nearly desolate, monotonous, quiet, empty, muddied with tans, browns and occasional ochre, and spotted with struggling vegetation. I'm not quite sure what woke me up. Maybe it was the happy chatter and smiles of locals despite their hardscrabble life, or perhaps my surprise at seeing flowing water in such a dry and baked land. But thinking back, I'm sure must have been the quiet respect and hushed tones of my friends, as we visited mission chapels. That was such a change from our usual banter and behavior. I think that caused me to step back from my funk, and take a different perspective on this ride. The bus rolled on, and I abandoned my geographic prejudices, and set aside my criticisms. I began to notice and appreciate the happy differences. The Artist, the Weaver and the movie site across the valley. Yellow-tipped cactus, dusty sage, and pot-bellied cedars gave way to towering pines, silver barked aspens, and majestic peaks. Here and there a turn surprised me with a sun dappled meadow, with flowers marching their way down to a mountain stream, dammed by beaver. What a change! Just like us. Years ago, we were young and fit, with a fierce determination and hard edged resolve. Now we're mellowed, wiser, but still eager and earnestly wanting to make the world better, only in a different way. We have so much in this world to be thankful for, least of all, each other.
Michael Vogelsang |
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