This morning, after stuffing ourselves on breakfast burritos, we brushed the llamas, fastened their saddles and loaded them with packs for a day hike to the top of the mountain — Gold Hill — at 12,700 feet. Once we were above the treeline, we enjoyed stunning views of Taos Ski Valley below us, and, beyond that, Wheeler Peak, about 5 miles away — the highest point in New Mexico, with an elevation of 13,065 feet.
At the top of the mountain, Stuart suggested that I might find some cellular signal, so I powered up my iPhone to discover that Keith had sent a few photos of their Taos sausage fest. By the time I got them, they were a day old. Apparently while the girls and I were layering on fleece sweaters and rain gear and seeking shelter from a hail storm, Keith and Charlie were 3,500 feet below us, lounging at their hotel pool. It looked to me like Charlie was feeling better, at least.
Okay, so technically we didn’t summit Gold Hill. By the time we were within about 50 vertical feet of the top, Stuart, who had been keeping an eye on deep purple clouds bristling with lighting that had been roiling up the other side of the mountain, urged us to turn around. Shortly after we found the safety of the treeline, the skies opened up and heaped hail all over our side of the mountain. It was still hailing/raining/sleeting by the time we got back to our basecamp and discovered that Stuart’s shelter had collapsed under the weight of the precipitation, and about 15 cows were meandering amongst our tents.
Stuart chased off the cattle — not only are their generously sized and closely spaced poop bombs a nuisance to campers, but their behavior around the llamas (and vice versa) could be erratic and even dangerous — then quickly rebuilt the shelter, and started a fire under it while the rest of us peeled off our soaking layers and dove into our tents to warm up in our sleeping bags. We emerged when the drizzle finally stopped and helped ourselves to a late-lunch spread that Stuart had set out.
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| Stuart made a snow llama out of a pile of hail. |
Stuart: What an amazing guide and a generous, gentle soul. And the hardest working person I’ve ever known. He kept a keen eye on the shifting weather, cheered us on when we were tired and wet and cold, entertained us with jokes and stories about his travels, kept the campsite in order, stoked the fire, prepared amazing meals and tended to his beloved llamas.
A native New Yorker, Stuart moved west when he was in his 20s, close to three decades ago, and is completely at-home in the New Mexico mountains. An avid outdoorsman who is deeply committed to conservation issues, he recounted a bazillion facts about the area’s ecology, geology and history, pointing out everything from columbine to chokecherries on the trail and plucking sprigs of wild onion for us to sample.
After lunch that afternoon, we all sat around the campfire trying to warm up. Renee, who also hails from the east coast but who now lives in Albuquerque, and Stuart recounted stories about off-the-beaten-track places in New Mexico and the quirky people who populate them.
Then, Leif and Robin started to loosen up. They struck me as kind of a strange couple. This is not their first outing with Stuart. They’ve done at least one, maybe two, day hikes with the llamas in the past. New Mexico, it seems, it their go-to vacation destination. They keep coming back every year.
Leif just finished up a degree in technical writing and German, but I have no idea what he does to earn money. A year or so ago, he saw a documentary on backpacking — “Mile … Mile & a Half” — which inspired him not only to adopt a new hobby but also to completely throw himself into it. He has all kinds of new, super-lite technical outdoor gear and followed Stuart around like a puppy trying to glean advice and approval from him. But according to Leif himself, he has never spent more than a night out on the trail, and his most exotic destination to date is some state park outside of Mankato, Minnesota. Mankato, folks.
Meanwhile, until last night, Robin had never been camping. Ever. When we were setting up camp, she made a fuss about the site Stuart had chosen for their tent, worried that they were too close to a swampy, low-lying muddy patch. Stuart, who has camped in that meadow probably dozens of nights this year alone, assured her that they would stay dry, but she continued to fret. She’s a tightly-wound gal who gave up a career as some kind of writer six years ago to become a weaver, though she claims that she hasn’t yet earned any money from her craft. The whole time we were on the trail, she seemed stiff and standoffish. That second afternoon, as we sat around the campfire, she started to open up to me, but instead of initiating a friendly, easy conversation, she exhibited a stunning shortfall in social etiquette as she self-righteously defended her choice to be a vegetarian and encouraged me to watch the films “Cowspiracy” and “Vegucated,” so that I can make the same decision. She then had the gall to look me in the eye and smugly tell me — a frigging full-time mother of three — that she and Leif don’t have children because “there are enough children in the world.” Jeeeee-sus. High maintenance. (She volunteered all of that information, by the way. I would never ask about the reasons behind her diet or her child-free lifestyle. But she’s so prickly and uptight, I think “defensive” is her default setting.)
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