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2008-11-16T05:08:47-07:00

The Reluctant Ghostbuster

2008-11-13T11:22:11-07:00

by Birdie Jaworski

Ghostly Orbs at the St. James Hotel/Birdie Jaworski

When I was a kid my Kentucky relatives scared me. We rarely visited them. I can count six times I saw them during my young years, each time a fishin' pole biscuit haze, my dad hiding outside, far away, with the newspaper and a transistor radio, my mom drinking Tab in the kitchen. My sisters and I tried to play with southern deep fried cousins we couldn't, didn't want to understand.

I remember Grannie holding court at a card table, Schlitz beer in one hand, cigarette in the other, slurring her words, blowing smoke and laughing. The right side of her face didn't work, it drooped from stroke, eye melting into cheek melting into lips like a wrinkled moist trout. Liver spots and raised veins and deep lines criss-crossed her hands, nightmare hands, and years later my sisters and I would use eyebrow pencils and mascara to draw age scars like Grannie during Halloween.

"Birdie," Grannie said one visit, over and over, "you shore like music, don'tcha? You're just like your grandpappy. You have his eyes, hon. He'd come singing those mountain songs." She hummed to herself and rocked in her small wooden chair, making a scrape, scrape, scrape against the gray and uneven wood slats of the porch. My sisters and I fanned ourselves with handmade paper fans decorated with bits of stray red yarn. "Yup. You shore take his features, hon."

The rest of the week my sisters and I played hide and seek in Grannie's overgrown tomato beds and caught tadpoles in jars, let our feet dangle in the rushing creek, feel the algae and minnows and smooth rocks. We ran back to the white lurching house in bare muddy feet, waited for dusk to catch fireflies, ate pickles wrapped with cheese.

The last night of our Kentucky visit we didn't chase fireflies. The sky brimmed with strange green black clouds and the rains fell in torrents on the tin roof. Grannie made us hide under a table while a siren blew and blew and blew. Tornado! Tornado! The rain fell forever, my back was cramped from the table, and I had to pee, oh I had to pee, rain please stop!

And then I heard something small, something beautiful. It sounded like a guitar or a harp, but twangy, and fast, and I bolted from under the table to the bathroom. Sitting on the waiting folding chair next to the bathroom door sat an old man with a banjo. I could barely see him in the dark, but I could tell his eyes were closed and his mouth was raised in a lopsided grin. He picked a song, something sweet and quick, and he said in a low rumble, "Don't be worrying about the storm, dear. Just sing and it will pass. Music makes all things pass." I ran back to the table. I forgot I had to pee. And I sang all the songs I knew until the storm passed.

The next day as we packed to leave I asked Grannie about the man with the banjo. She looked at me like I was crazy. "Ain't no one play banjo here, Birdie." She waved goodbye with her cigarette as our station wagon pulled out the drive. Ten years later, during a tornado spot in my life, I bought a banjo at a pawn shop and taught myself Red River Valley. I still play it today, all those songs, me and my banjo and my lopsided grin.

I thought about my Grampa's ghost as I climbed the stairs of Gallery 111, a combination Bed and Breakfast and Art Gallery on a quiet Tucumcari street. Painter and gallery owner Sharon Quarles stopped every few steps and adjusted artwork that somehow had dipped below level, somehow twisted uneven in a space geologically stable, free of fall's New Mexican winds.

"It's our ghost," Sharon laughed as she pressed fingers against a vivid oil painting of a scrawny baby vulture resting in a stony crevice, eyes on viewer, curious eyes, eyes holding animal fear, a scene expertly painted by her husband, Doug. "She's a kind ghost. Everyone loves her. She likes to let you know she's around. Her trademark is to leave a penny and a dime, together, for folks she likes to find."

Gallery 111's ghost, so the story goes, cleaned homes during her life, collected tips in the form of small change from rich patrons staying in the lovely old home. She leaves eleven cents, a good tip in her day, for those who must clean up after her whimsical, humorous hauntings.

As I left the Quarles' brick Victorian, I stopped to admire another tipped painting, this one by Sharon. Kokopelli as real man, as heavily-muscled pied piper, a tiny loin cloth taunting the lustful, a shock of careless black hair cascading over bulging shoulders, stole four feet of wall. I seemed to hear his unearthly music as I stepped into fall's crisp air. A half-buried penny and dime waited for me in the driveway as I opened my car door. I pressed them into the front pocket of my jeans.

Smells of tobacco, flashes of light, the sense that someone is watching - Northeastern New Mexican residents know the sublime walk of the eternal, know that sometimes the rustle of leaves is something more than wind, than hunting cat. Most communities in our area have stories of ghosts, of unexplained noises, of cold hands on body in the middle of the night.

The owners of three Las Vegas Victorian homes south of Lincoln Park report friendly ghosts. Teenagers tell frightening tales of sneaking into the corridors of the closed Castaneda Hotel at night, only to be driven out by a woman wearing a tattered dress, her hair frizzy, swept into a messy updo, one skinny index finger pointed, judgmental, deliberate.

The St. James Hotel in Cimarron boasts one of the most active - and terrifying - ghosts. Built in 1872 by Henry Lambert, the inn, saloon, and restaurant were witness to at least 26 murders during Cimarron's wildest days. Clay Allison, Black Jack Ketchum, Jesse James, and Buffalo Bill Cody left ragged bullet holes in the tin-tiled ceiling of the main dining room. Buffalo Bill met Annie Oakley here, in this almost-forgotten corner of New Mexico, and together they conceived their Wild West Show.

I walked through St. James' empty halls one lazy Sunday morning. My camera felt heavy around my neck. My hair stood on end as I passed room 18, a room kept boarded, perpetually locked, due to the malevolent ghost of Thomas James Wright. Killed at his door after winning the rights to the hotel in a poker game, Thomas refuses to give up his booty. One former owner said she was pushed down while in the room and, on another occasion, saw a ball of angry orange light floating in the upper corner. The room holds only the bare necessities that Thomas required - a thinly-made bed, a coat rack, a rocking chair, a bureau laden with Old West memorabilia. No one sleeps there now, no one crosses the room's wooden threshold. Legend has it that when the room was rented, a number of mysterious deaths occurred there.

An otherwordly dwarf-like old man also sneaks around the hotel. Nicknamed "Little Imp" by hotel staff, the spirit creates chaos around him, stealing objects and hiding them in odd places, playing tricks on the hotel staff. Another ghost, the spirit of Mary Elizabeth Lambert, roams the hotel, a sweet protector. Mary gave birth to her children in the hotel and died there herself in December, 1926. Mary's rose-scented perfume rises from the bed in her room. Sometimes, an insistent tapping warns her window is open and will not stop until the window is closed. On other occasions, a milky transparent woman can be seen in the hallways.

Click. I snapped photographs as I traveled down the hall. Click. I felt the pressure of something cool, something strong, against the front of my neck. I gasped for air. Click. The next day would reveal a group of unearthly orbs circling near Jesse James' favorite room, number 14.

Back in Las Vegas, I tried to make sense of ghost and goblin. Are they spirits stuck in our plane, unaware of their own death? Are they handing us messages from beyond, warnings to the living to live right, to submit to some higher authority? Maggie Nelson of the Las Vegas Citizen's Committee for Historic Preservation grinned when asked about our vaporous visitors.

"So many places are haunted, it's incredible," she laughed. "Ask anyone in town. Everyone has a ghost story or knows someone with a ghost story."

The Plaza Hotel on the corner of the Las Vegas Plaza is home to one of the most-loved and active ghosts in Northeastern New Mexico, Byron T. Mills. A former owner of the hotel, Byron acted as town Mayor and as a territorial representative. Mills Avenue carries his name. In fact, his ego was so large that he named it after himself. He died in 1947, at the Elks Lodge, but still lives today in the room - 310 - that he loved.

Jesika, a young woman manning the hotel front desk shivered when I asked her about Byron T. She showed me a photograph kept behind the desk. The ghost's room looks normal, looks well-kept, clean, tastefully appointed with a thick comforter and elegant drapes. And in one chair, at a small round table, a translucent man gestures, his profile caught in animated conversation. Byron T.

"He scares me!" she exclaimed. "He likes to bother women. People hear him walking in the room. Sometimes he locks the doors and makes noise. I don't like the third floor at all."

Click. My trusty camera attempted to capture the elusive, the memory of events that happened long before my birth. Click. Later I would discover than every photograph I took came out solid black, a trick, perhaps, of Byron T. Jesika led me up the stairs to the third floor. The air felt electric, alive. I quickly strode into room 310, and was struck by its normal look, its seemingly middle-class simplicity, its brightly lit beauty.

Step. Step. Step. I heard them, Byron T.'s footfalls, as I packed my camera into its bag and prepared to go. Step. This morning I stare at my desk, at eleven cents, at the banjo propped against my office wall, at the fourteen blank-black photographs of a hotel room, at the ghostly orbs circling the St. James Hotel. I stare and remember, remember the raise of hair on arm, the journey of unbelief to acceptance.

We only think we are alone. Byron T.'s footsteps ring in my ear, remind me that one day we, too, may walk the streets of Northeastern New Mexico, may shake our fists at the sleeping, at those who unknowingly still possess life.

Ladybug Migration

2008-11-13T11:11:33-07:00

Hermit's Peak looks alien, looks sharp against our softly curved sky. The mountain is littered with crevices and caves, its peak rising 3700 feet above Las Vegas. The monolith was once called El Cerro del Tecolote, The Hill Of The Owl, by early Spanish settlers. Old stories tell of a wise feathered messenger from heaven who reminded travelers to watch, to listen, to stop and pray.

"God's owl used to protect those who had to face the mountain," explains Mona Gallegos, a tiny woman from Mora who used to serve lunch in the schools. "My abuela told me to stop when I heard the owl. That meant it was time to notice God's beauty and ask Jesus to help me get through the day. Now I tell my own grandchildren to listen for the owl when they make their pilgrimage up Hermit's Peak."

In the late 1800's, the mountain took her new name. An Italian missionary, Juan Maria de Agostini, called a natural cave near the tip of the summit home. He came to be known as a holy man, a man whose hands held God's healing powers, a man who traded carvings and trinkets for food. Each Good Friday, pentitente pilgrims carried lighted torches up the steep trail, praying for forgiveness. Hand-hewn crosses still stand near the overlook, each surrounded by new devotional candles and rosary beads, and the hermit's source of water, an underground spring, waits for tired hikers to drink from its cool, clean depths.

People aren't the only ones making journeys up the mountain, aren't the only creatures following an unspoken call. The hiking trail up the mountain's rugged folds is difficult, beset with what feels like thousands of switchbacks. Her summit lays flat, a broad park-like area with imposing cliffs on the eastern and southern sides. And in the fall, when the golden aspen catches September's sun, the ladybugs return.

The ladybugs arrive from aphid-infested wheat fields in Texas and Oklahoma, fat, happy, engorged on farmers' pests. They congregate in the high-lying areas of Northeastern New Mexico, in the places far above the Great Plains. They visit during Indian summer, roll in the deep cracks of broad-leaved agave, the spines of pale green western grass. They hibernate here, find warm holes in the ground, dark corners where they can rest and wait.

Hikers will find September's peak covered in millions of Convergent Ladybug Beetles, Hippodamia convergens. They sneak into every fold of leaf, every cactus crevice, clustering close to protect each other from fall's growing winds. The beetles get their name from the converging white lines on their thorax. They usually have 13 black dots on an orange elytra or shell.

Each summer at Hermit's Peak, a new generation of ladybugs participates in a passive, or wind-carried, migration. After feeding all summer, they hibernate through the winter, their bodies cold, lifeless, underground. Ladybugs don't navigate well. They can fly short distances, jump from one branch to another. They need our spring winds to carry them home. They may land in the arid plains surrounding Roy and Mosquero, or, if luck is a ladybug, they will find Texas' bounty.

During a lifespan of a few months, female ladybugs lay up to 500 eggs on leaves and twigs. The eggs hatch and the larvae engorge themselves on aphids, then pupate. Since the larvae clean out the fields, the adults migrate back to Hermit's Peak to await the opportunity when they too can go back to aphid-rich areas and lay their eggs.

Last fall brought an abundance of ladybugs to the hermit's haunt. On a sun-drenched Saturday, I pressed aching feet into the steep grade, my right hand moving in triad instinct as I passed each Station of the Cross. I didn't see ladybugs until I lifted leg onto the summit, until I glanced down at my feet to see them surrounded by a gentle army of delicate orange beauties.

The beetles didn't notice me, didn't fly in fear. They continued gorging, their bodies soaking sun as they splayed across any available succulent. And in the distance, beneath the sheer drop of stone cliff, a lone owl welcomed me, reminded me to stand in thanks, in wonder, to ask for help on my way down the mountain.

Getting There:

Hermit Peak is located in northern New Mexico about 20 miles northwest of Las Vegas. From Interstate 25, exit at Las Vegas, highway 65. From Las Vegas, take New Mexico highway 65 (also Forest Service Road 263) west for about 14 miles, passing the little towns of Gallinas and El Porvenir. At about 14 miles the road forks. Right is Hwy 65 (FR 261), Left is FR 263. Turn right on FR 261at the signed fork and head to El Porvenir Camground. (Do not confuse the town of El Porvenir with El Porvenir Campground) The campground is about 3 miles past the fork. It is a paved road all the way to the parking lot. The trailhead is across the bridge into the campground. The Hermit Peak Trail is #223 and has a large sign at the beginning. Another trail, #219, to El Porvenir Canyon begins nearby. Use trail #223 to Hermit Peak. The trailhead is at 7500 feet.

For more information contact:

Sante Fe National Forest
Las Vegas Ranger District
1926 7th Street
Las Vegas, NM 87701
(505) 988-6997

When To Climb

Depending on the snowfall and conditions, late May through early November is the best time to climb Hermit Peak. May and June are typically the dry months, and July and August are the monsoon season with daily afternoon thunderstorms. Snow can begin as early as September.

A few things you may have missed...

2008-11-12T06:41:28-07:00

The end of the 2008 Presidential Campaign was fast and furious. Michelle Obama visited My Tiny Vegas, and I traveled to Washington, DC to live-blog the election for NPR. Here are links to my stories on these events, as I posted them at my primary blog:

What's it like blogging at NPR HQ?

Live from NPR in Washington DC!

Signs in my little quadrant of New Mexico

An Experiment of One: Eyes on New Mexico

Michelle Obama visits Las Vegas, New Mexico

You can see me on the right (midway through the group) live-blogging at NPR on election night!