(Not Quite) 50 Shades of Yellow

 (Originally written 10/21/24)

Well sadly the last hummingbird of the season has “left the building.”  It has been at least three weeks since any of the tiny colibri have been seen sucking on the agastache plants outside our bedroom window during our early morning stretching routines.  Or at any other time.  Same for dining at the red plastic feeders.  Alas, ‘til next year.  

                

But wait…  A couple of days after realizing our loss we saw one hovering at a penstemon plant in the garden of another property about ¼ mile away.  Could it be that the bird just didn’t get the “time to go” memo?   Were there grounds for hope?   Or was it just result of one of The City Different’s climatological quirks?

                

Santa Fe’s elevation averages around 7,000 feet.  Out neighborhood is 7,200.  The town is nestled into the foothills of the Rocky Mountains the tops of which top out around 13,000 ft.  

                

The blog.outspire.com website says, “living at high elevation is a bit of a challenge. If you cook, it means that recipes have to be adjusted or cake batter will rise out of the pan then collapse. [Marsha took a “high-altitude cooking class” at the Community College and uses the “Pie in the Sky Successful Baking at High Altitudes” cookbook to avoid such things.]  

                

“There is less atmosphere over our heads – less atmospheric ‘weight’ – so water boils at a lower temperature and rice or pasta needs longer cooking times.  Because the air is less dense, it doesn’t retain heat, which means that we experience bigger temperature swings between sunny and shaded places, or between night and day.  [Our rule of thumb for sun vs. shade is 15-20 degrees F difference.]  Daytime high temperatures are on average 30 degrees F above nighttime lows.”

                

And then there are the Santa Fe micro-climates.

                

Outspire.com continues, “we had snowshoeing guests [in February] who were very dismayed to arrive and find almost no snow in town.  In fact, daytime highs were in the high 50’s, we were all in shirt sleeves – [see above sun vs shade rule] and it seemed impossible to them that we would be able to have a snowshoe outing … They were amazed and delighted by the two-plus feet of snow on their mountain trail.”            

                

After seven years out here we’re come to accept such things.  We are no longer surprised to be caught in a 30-minute monsoonal rain downpour and find a totally dry street when we arrive at our home four miles away.  Other similar examples abound.  Mostly involving precipitation.  But how “micro” are these micro-climates anyway?

                

Well, as blog.outspire.com points out, “two sides of a small gully in the woods may have different plants … because of the slight differences in sun exposure and moisture.”  Is that what explains the color and condition of a quintet of adjacent locust trees on our street’s snow-shelf?  The five showed a tree-by-tree time-lapse of leaf deterioration with the farthest from our abode beginning to drop its yellow leaves and the one closest to us still entirely green – while the three middle ones in turn showed a little yellow foliage, the next somewhat more and the penultimate one still more.  Another result of “slight differences in sun exposure and moisture…”

                

Our main goal on the walk that brought us past the late-to-leave hummingbird was to check the copse of cottonwood trees at one end of our community’s main arroyo  – “a watercourse that conducts an intermittent or ephemeral flow, providing primary drainage for an area of land of 40 acres.” (wikipedia.org)  A portion of our paved walking paths parallel its banks.  

                

Cottonwoods grow where the water is.  Which is how/why when you look at the NM landscape you can tell where the rivers and streams are without being able to see the water.  Our arroyo is a textbook “intermittent or ephemeral” waterway.  (YTD rain is north of 13”.  Woot, woot!)  However over the years enough H₂O has accumulated alongside one portion of the gully to support three of these thirsty poplar trees.  Because of this unseen reservoir and their unfettered access to the daily sun this tree trio is among the last of the vegetation around us to metamorphose into its autumnal yellow hue – basically the only fall color that we get out here.  

               

 

The other abundant deciduous tree out here is the Aspen – most common in New Mexico at elevations of 6,500 to 10,000 feet.  Which for Santa Feans means the annual drive up Hyde Park Road towards the 10,350 foot high Ski Basin to enjoy its various vista points and hiking paths, most notably the eponymous “Aspen Vista Trail.”  Poorly planned road construction this year however has restricted such trips to Sundays.   Nonetheless several thousand leaf-peepers are showing up at each of the allotted secular Sabbath gatherings.  Normally we would be among them, however we have opted to wait ‘til next year.  

 

We did however take part in another Aspen leaf senescence ritual.  From our community we get to watch portions of the Sangre de Cristo mountains change on a daily basis from a Summer-long solid green to an amorphous yellow and green pattern as the Aspens turn amidst the non-deciduous Pines, which steadfastly maintain their healthy hue.  (Sorry, no good pix.  But for those who remember such things it is like watching a multi-day, slow-motion card stunt section at a college football game  – e.g. this BYU tradition.)  

                

And then there’s the chamisa.

                

Also known as rabbitbrush, chamisa is a hardy shrub that grows well in poor conditions such as coarse and alkaline soils, prefers full sun and requires little water.  In other words, New Mexico.  Hiding in plain sight with its dull gray coloration for most of the growing season chamisa proudly proclaims its presence with clusters of fragrant, butterfly-attracting golden flowers in late summer and early fall.  According to the SF Botanical Garden, “this misunderstood plant is one of our area's most important pollinators, and often gets blamed for causing sneezes and sniffles. [Much like ragweed back east.]  But actually, its pollen is so sticky, it doesn't go airborne!  So, the next time someone sneezes and blames our friend the chamisa, kindly inform them that the cause of their nose-tickles is actually everything else that's blooming.”

                

At El Rancho de las Golondrinas chamisa (“one of the oldest known dye plants in the area”) is one of the stars at our annual October Harvest Festival “creating beautiful shades of yellow” at the Dye Shed station.   Its flowers and stems were used by pre-contact Navajo and Zuñi Native Americans as their primary source of yellow dye.  Back in Europe the Spanish weavers’ source for that hue had been weld – a biennial plant native to that continent and Western Asia, but not the desert southwest of Nueva España.  Once again “doing what they could, with what they had, where they were” the early New Mexican colonists switched to chamisa.

                

“The Spanish settlers carded, spun and wove wool to make rugs for the floor, blankets for the bed and horses, and clothing – including sarapes (blankets or shawls worn by men) and rebozos (shawls worn by women). These woven goods and sheep were the most important commodity exported from New Mexico … Wool was either left its natural color or prepared with natural dyes [that were] typically grown on the ranch, but brilliant blues such as indigo and rich reds using cochineal (cochinilla) were imported from Mexico over the Camino Real.”  (El Rancho de las Golondrinas)

                

Prior to the arrival of the Spanish the color palette of Indigenous weavers (Navajo and Pueblo) was mostly brown, white, and indigo – the latter “obtained through trade and purchased in lumps.” (wikipedia.org)  In the mid 1800s black, green, yellow, gray and red were added.  This red was mostly raveled (untangled) yarn from other textiles with some occasional cochineal, “which often made a circuitous trade route through Spain and England on its way to the Navajo.” (wikipedia.org)  For yellow the Natives used chamisa – which they also utilized for tea, medicines, food and baskets.

                

At Harvest Festival most of the dye-talk usually centers around cochineal and indigo – the big guns of the all-natural fabric-coloring world.  But this year there was also much marveling at the profusion of chamisa and its unusually bright yellow color.  Even more than was needed by that sizable statewide community of New Mexico weavers who still do it the natural way.

                

Climates, both micro and macro, change with the seasons.  Especially true in an area with four true seasons – each creating its own ambiance marked by its own memorable features.  Not all of which are repeated next time around.  (During the summer of 2018 for example the open spaces in our community and other similar areas were teeming with wild cow pen daisies – never to be seen around here since at any time in any place.)  

                

 

Within a month the chamisa’s yellow coloring will fade to gray – to reappear again next year, just about the time the hummingbirds depart.  Or so we hope.  If not we the two have paintings by local artists, which book-end this email, to remind us of what we are missing.  As author Janet Fitch tells us “memory is the fourth dimension to any landscape.”  

 

    

 

Who says....

On November 7 our local newspaper proclaimed “Winter blitz buries Santa Fe … 10 to 12 inches of snow.”  The first such event since we have moved here wherein the snow did not melt by noon and actual shoveling was required.  All that was missing were a couple of cardinals at our bird feeders to make the perfect New England Christmas card scene – unlikely to happen as the colorful crested birds have yet to find their way north from the lower (and warmer) part of our new home state.  

For us it was reminiscent of the “Shocktober” snowstorm that hit New England on October 29 and 30, 2011.  But smaller.  In both there was a foot of snow.  And the wet white-stuff clung to the large number of leaves still on the trees bringing down branches and causing power outages – 830,00 in CT.  We were without electricity for five days.  Here there were 19,000 including Monica and Bram for a few hours.  Our community’s power lines are underground so we were unaffected.

While headline-grabbing this 12” downburst comes nowhere near our December 30, 2006 experience when 3 ½ times that amount fell in North Central New Mexico – notably for us in Albuquerque where we were scheduled to catch an early-morning flight back home to Connecticut.

We had spent the Christmas holidays with Monica and Bram in Santa Fe, as we did each year after retiring and before relocating here.  We flew in and out of the ABQ Sunport and spent the night of arrival and before departure at a favorite hotel, 20 minutes from the airfield.  With early morning flights it was our habit to arrive before the crack of dawn, check-in, get a breakfast croissant sandwich & coffee, settle in at a public lounge overlooking the runways and watch the sun rise and planes come and go.  Which we did the morning of 12/30/2003.  Except there was no first-light due to the cloudy skies and heavily falling snow.  Worse yet there were no planes exiting or entering.  Nada.  Nonetheless flight announcements continued as if all was according to schedule.  Until boarding time when we were told that our flight was canceled and we should go to the check-in area to find out Plan B.  Which was that they would put us up at an airport hotel and fly us out the next day.

No problem.  No jobs to get back to.  We had credit cards and books to read.  So we retrieved our luggage, got on the shuttle and checked in at our hotel for that night.

Next morning – still snowing.  We boarded the shuttle.  At the airport we were met by an airplane representative who handed everyone a card with a 1-800 number.  Which we called and after one-plus hours spoke to a person who was thrilled to hear that we did not need to be on a plane that day and arranged a return flight for a few days out.

We contacted our favorite hotel and got our original room back.  Called the car rental and got the same PT Cruiser.  (After all no one was coming or going anywhere.)  Picked up our wheels.  Went back to the hotel.  Did some laundry. Called Monica & Bram to set up a brunch date in Santa Fe for New Year’s morning.  And settled into the lodge’s large lounge with our paperbacks.  New Years Eve dinner at an empty Applebee’s, saw the high desert buried in snow, more time with “the kids,” explored snow-covered Albuquerque Old Town, read & relaxed.  Who says being stranded in a snowstorm can’t be fun?

Back to the present – just over two weeks before this snowstorm we played what may have been our final round of golf for this calendar year.  And next night took part in one of our favorite volunteer gigs at El Rancho de las Golondrinas, “Spirits of New Mexico” – the last event of the season.

The decision to “hit the links” was spontaneous – a combination of warm weather, nothing planned and feeling good.  The activity level at the local courses drops off considerably in October so it was easy to get a tee time. 

The group ahead was a foursome.  In spite of being twice as many people and though we were playing unusually fast for us we lost sight of them by the third hole.  We caught up however at the seventh – an infinitely long par 67 (or so it seems) – arriving at the green as they were at the tee box for the next hole, from which they could easily see the action on ours.  So they watched as Marsha (casually or so it appeared) “drained” a 30-foot putt –  then heard what sounded like clapping and looked up to see one of the group applauding her shot.  Then on the ninth hole (our last) Jim hit three shots straight down the fairway (a rare occurrence) bringing him to the edge of the green.  From which he two-putted – five strokes on a par four.  A good ending for both of us.  Who says golf can’t be fun?

The next afternoon around 4:00 PM we reported to El Rancho de las Golondrinas for “hair and makeup” (well makeup anyway) in preparation for our parts in the annual “Spirits of New Mexico… where guests gather around campfires and lantern-lit paths [to] listen to the captivating tales of ghosts who once roamed the land of enchantment.”  We were also there to carbo-load on pizza.  Ostensibly to increase the amount of glycogen stored in our muscles in order to reduce fatigue and improve performance.  In reality it is because it tastes good.

This year there were ten re-enactors portraying specific specters who lived and died in the Land of Enchantment plus several more generic ghosts.  We fell into the latter category.  

Marsha represented a “Dead Weaver” (much like a living one, which she normally is, but in the dark with wraithlike makeup.)   Throughout the year Marsha has often been the only fiber worker “on duty.”  So she has developed several different talks depending on how many people, their ages, perceived level of interest, familiarity with the craft, etc.  When possible she likes to give people the opportunity to experience weaving on the museum’s “demo loom.”  Unfortunately that device as well as the large looms on which the Golondrinas weavers do their work are in small rooms where the apparatuses take up much of the space – that night dimly lit by chandelier candles and small plastic votives.  Plus the spirit of master weaver Juan Bazán who was sent to New Mexico in 1807 to improve the quality of weaving was in one of them telling his story.  As a result Marsha and the other two generic dead weavers talked with their guests outside in the ramada – an open-sided, branch-roofed shelter.   Good on warm sunny days, not so much on a 45° degree evening.

Meanwhile Jim was in the office of the ranch owner heated by a kiva fireplace portraying an un-named ranch-hand and recounting the story of the 1776 Comanche raid at Golondrinas Ranch that resulted in the killing of nine (including that owner’s son and nephew) and the kidnapping of two.  (The Comanche were “raiders and traders” – raiding other tribes and European settlers then trading some of that plunder with different tribes and other European settlers.  At Golondrinas they were after horses and potential slaves.  During their raids they also would kill any men of “fighting age” that they came across.)

The pretty much non-stop parade of guests were inquisitive and enthusiastic, which in turn got the volunteer’s adrenaline pumping.  Who says history (esp. with food and drink) can’t be fun? 

As it always does the snow has melted – to reappear several more times before we return again to our regular Friday golf and Saturday Golondrinas timetable.  

The courses will be open through the winter.  (“December in Santa Fe – ski in the morning and golf in the afternoon.”)  But when the number of layers of clothing exceeds the number of strokes per hole, we pack it in.  So except for occasional trips to the practice range and (with luck) a few “warm weather, nothing planned and feeling good” days we can only hope that our long-term muscle memory will be able to recreate those magic moments of magnificence we experienced during our late October outing.

Las Golondrinas closes November thru May – the dormant period for docents.  Fortunately for our mental exercise there will be volunteer training in March.  Until then there will be other lectures and classes offered at other venues as we Santa Feans move indoors for our entertainment and enlightenment.  And of course the library.  Where instead of actually “improving ourselves” with the works in the New Mexico history section we find ourselves drawn to fiction and those dark and morally complex “Nordic Noir” mysteries.  

Who says the bleak mid-winter can’t be fun too?