Chama interlude

May 24-26

I woke up in a quaint little railroad-themed hotel in the not-very-quaint little railroad-themed town of Chama. I popped my shoes on and stepped out into a bright, cool morning to get some breakfast. On the street, I turned back to look at my hotel.

The Hotel, it was labeled. Beneath that, in smaller type, was an advertisement:

Money For Sale!

What, I wondered, would you buy money with? Money, one suspects. If so, then wouldn't it be a barter of same for same? And in any transaction where you are buying money and both parties are using the same currency, isn't one person the obvious loser? Like if I buy a dollar for eighty cents, I'm pretty clearly making a sucker out of the seller.

Mysteries!

Turns out the railroad that can take me back to the trailhead isn't running until Saturday morning, so I either had to hitch back out to Cumbres Pass and hike 17 miles back in to the NNML, or wait a few days. I consulted my two childhood friends, Dan and James, over Facebook Messenger.

Dan: "If it means a chance to ride on a narrow-gauge railroad, I think it's a no-brainer."

James: "Try to find some paperbacks."

They know me so well.

So it is that I stayed three days in Chama. Onthe first day I took care of my gear -- I picked up my packraft at the Post Office, as the next stretch of trail includes the second crossing of the Rio. I mended my down jacket and a glove that had a busted zipper and swam, respectively. I bought my food for the next leg and packed it up while watching Gunsmoke and Bonanza on TV. 

I ran into the hikers I'd passed earlier -- Snow, Thunder, Tennesteve and Fun Size, and we walked through town together. Thunder stopped us as we walked past my hotel to ponder how money could be for sale, then we got fudge. It felt so damn good to be around other people again. 

I excused myself to eat and catch up on my blog, then met them again for a drink that evening. At the bar was a stout little man I'd seen the day prior when I first got to town and ate a meal. He'd introduced himself as Ramon -- "people call me Rambo" -- and I'd decided that he looked more like a Ramon to me. 

I nodded to him, he blinked, and then he ignored me and went back to his succession of Michelob Ultras.

We finished our drinks and left.

***

Day two, I met more hikers at the local restaurant/bar/hotel -- seems like there were quite a few CDT northbounders collecting in town. Everyone discussed their snow strategies: Snowshoes and ice axe? Snow and Thunder were getting skis sent in. Fun Size was looking at an alternate route. I saw one guy putting on his backpack and his game face to hitch out: axe, crampons, snowshoes and grim determination all lashed in place. Fortune favors the brave, buddy! 

I spent most of the day writing blog entries and doing gear repair. My down jacket's zipper was broken, and my gloves had busted a seam, so I applied about a yard of dental floss and the whip stitch to bring everything back up to snuff. My gloves now looked they belonged to a crust pink with OCD, but they would hold. 

In the evening, I grabbed a burger and a beer at the bar next door to the hotel. Of course Ramon was there, chasing Crown Royal with Ultras. This time, he was a bit more loquacious. He didn't remember me, but he did engage with me, telling me that the Raiders belong in Las Vegas, which he considered the best city on Earth. He had been a wild young general contractor with many girlfriends and a penchant for fast living, he confided. 

He had a pal at the bar, an older Hispanic gentleman. The gentleman bought me a beer, and then I returned the favor, and then we were both pretty loquacious ourselves. He had a narrative of uncontrollable immigration that I found fascinating.

"Now, I got nothing against them," he said. "Many of them are friends. But we have so damn many moving in, we're losing our culture, our sense of who we are. And they take all the jobs." I nodded. 

"Yes," he said. "We've always had white people here. But now there are just too many of them."

I love New Mexico.

***

Friday, last day in town, and I was ready to get out. I checked through my gear again, then finally followed Dan and James' advice and got a paperback, some old detective novel from the 40s they were throwing away at the library. It was a good way to while away a day, and it occurred to me that I couldn't remember the last time I'd intentionally "wasted" a day on a non-productive, non-active kind of leisure. It was harder to do than I would have guessed; my brain kept prodding me to weed the garden or something.

In the evening, I walked down to the other end of town to check out a classic rock cover band at the town's second bar and restaurant. Two guys kind of wheezed their way through some Boston and Doors numbers, I had a second dinner and some beers. And I of course smiled to Ramon, who was obviously in attendance, this time in a humorously oversized cowboy hat (but still the same sleeveless shirt). He had once again forgotten me, and just responded with that mole-like blink of his. In retrospect, think he may have been a leprechaun, or maybe a duende.

I settled the tab, buying Ramon a drink before I went. It's good policy to have leprechauns on your side. I walked back through a bitter cold, starlight night, and climbed into bed.

Money for sale, I thought as I drifted off. What can it mean?