From This Valley

By Mike Taylor

Red River is a unique world unto itself...about a half mile wide and seven miles long. Nobody here really cares if you made it big somewhere. They do want to know if you would help shovel their jeep out of the snow bank they drove into while looking at the elk herd in the meadow on their way to their cabin.

The town and many of its visitors are quirky. Women like Tillie Simion have always run this town and frequently their husbands with an iron fist. Tillie, without knowing...or probably caring... was a rabid feminist, successful business woman, intimidating social force, and one the state’s best known Republicans. Go figure. The local newspaper reported in the 40’s that the first deer of the season was shot by “Hank” Mutz. For those who don’t know, “Hank” is actually Henrietta Mutz, the wife of Johnny Mutz...as of today I imagine she can still outshoot most of the men and women in these parts. They had daughters, of course. All three of whom could, did, and still do out ride, out work, and probably outshoot the Texans and Okies. Forget about messing with Texas; don’t mess with the Mutz’es.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mike Taylor
• Release date: Dec 11, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301511082

Mike Taylor

Janie and I met in Red River, New Mexico, in July of 1962. She was a tourist teenager from Tulsa. I was the son/grandson of business owners (“summers only” at the time) and part of a network of town boys who kept each other informed regarding the arrival of comely lasses from Oklahoma and Texas (states which, in our estimation, comprised the entire observable universe)...and any relevant details such as the demeanor of their parents and the size and potential combativeness of any big brothers. Despite the fact that September found me back in school in Nashville, Tennessee and she went back to Tulsa, our summer romance (duration: 4 days) stuck. She actually responded to my letters. Every time. Two years later, by sheer coincidence (or as my evangelical buddies remind me, “divine intervention”) Janie’s Dad was transferred to Nashville during our senior year of high school. We parted ways for college; she went off to the University of Kentucky and became a sorority girl and a talented academician. I went to West Point where my most significant distinction was surviving. We got married the day after I graduated. She had kept responding to my letters! In our 40+ years of marriage we’ve moved almost 20 times. For both of us, Red River has been one of the most significant anchors of our lives.

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FROM THIS VALLEY

By Mike Taylor

Copyright © 2012

ISBN: 9781301511082

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

Dedication

Introduction

Little Wes

Testosterone & Willys Jeep

Red River Becomes A Ski Town

Burning Tillie’s Outhouse

Two Layers Of Levis; Learning To Ski In Red River

Local Feuds

Taos & The Roswell Space Aliens

The Original Music City… Almost

Teen Girls

New Year’s Day 2006

Thank You, Foy

Grumpy Old Men Of Red River

Taos Pueblo

Old Fashioned 4th Of July

Woodsies

Omigosh!

Buy Us A Beer

Christmas 2006

No Vacancy

The Red River Golf Course

Summiting Wheeler Peak

Rainbows

Ruining Red River

Christmas 2007

Getting Psyched For A NM Holidaymas On Or About Christmas 2007

Mardi Gras & Underwear

Ernie & Me

Teenspeak

The Community House

Thank God For Questa

Big Brad’s Pizza

Aspens

Enchanted Holidays

Walking In The Valleys

Starting The Summer Season

Fisherpersons

Heaven Scent

Bears

Chipmunks

Men Of A Certain Age

Traveling Through Slapout

Mardi Gras 2010

July 4th 1965

The 55th (Or Thereabouts) 4th Of July

Of Churches In The Wildwoods

Aspen Reveries

RRSA Chair Lift

Ski Lifts Part 2

From Cowboys To Cajuns

Guard Your Tacos

Branding

Tween Weeks

October’s Best

A Christmas Letter

Christmas 2011

Opal

Wheeler Peak 2012

Middlefork Lake 2012

Hot Chili Days & Chillier Mountain Nights

Television Reception

Child Labor

DEDICATION

Well, this is tough as well as dangerous. People I might mention here would be embarrassed if the book is generally conceded to be lousy. If it's any good, people I omit might be ticked. I could dedicate it to my Mom, Maxine Grindstaff. She brought me to this valley originally. And Moms have to like whatever their sons produce. It's a rule. I could dedicate it to my wife Janie, but wives don't necessarily have to like whatever their husbands produce. But she did live through much of what I wrote about and could possibly testify to accuracy. The good news is, I think, wives cannot be forced to testify against their husbands. That she might testify against me voluntarily, though, is not out of the question.

So I officially dedicate this book to the valley itself. A haven for those of us who grew up here in many ways. The valley is more than the place; it is more than the people; it is more than the memories. It is a semi sacred, almost mythic locus of escape, dreams, rest, and peace. It is six miles long and a half mile wide and for those who get it the Valley epitomizes our state motto: The Land of Enchantment.

And also to my Mom and Janie.

INTRODUCTION

Janie and I met in Red River in July of 1962. She was a tourist teenager from Tulsa. I was the son/grandson of business owners (summers only at the time) and part of a network of town boys who kept each other informed regarding the arrival of comely lasses from Oklahoma and Texas (states which, in our estimation, comprised the entire observable universe)…and any relevant details such as the demeanor of their parents and the size and potential combativeness of any big brothers.

Despite the fact that September found me back in school in Nashville, Tennessee and she went back to Tulsa, our summer romance (duration: 4 days) stuck. She actually responded to my letters. Every time. Two years later, by sheer coincidence (or as my evangelical buddies remind me, divine intervention) Janie’s Dad was transferred to Nashville during our senior year of high school. We parted ways for college; she went off to the University of Kentucky and became a sorority girl and a talented academician. I went to West Point where my most significant distinction was surviving. We got married the day after I graduated. She had kept responding to my letters!

In our 40+ years of marriage we’ve moved almost 20 times. For both of us, Red River has been one of the most significant anchors of our lives.

I am fond of saying (and say it often in the following essays) of Red River, you either get it or you don’t. Red River is not Vail. It is not Scottsdale.

Answer: A wine list, valet parking, linen table cloths, and a high speed quad chairlift.

Question: What 4 things are NOT found in Red River?

Yet, those who get it would rather be here in a Willys jeep and a backpack than up in Aspen with a Lexus SUV and Gucci purse.

Red River is a unique world unto itself… about a half mile wide and three miles long. Nobody here really cares if you made it big somewhere. They do want to know if you would help shovel their jeep out of the snow bank they drove into while looking at the elk herd in the meadow on their way to their cabin.

The town and many of its visitors are quirky. Women like Tillie Simion have always run this town, and frequently their husbands, with an iron fist. Tillie, without knowing…or probably caring… was a rabid feminist, successful business woman, intimidating social force, and one the state’s best known Republicans. Go figure. The local newspaper reported in the 40s that the first deer of the season was shot by Hank Mutz. For those who don’t know, Hank is actually Henrietta Mutz, the wife of Johnny Mutz… as of today I imagine she can still outshoot most of the men and women in these parts. They had daughters, of course. All three of whom could, did, and still do out ride, outwork, and probably outshoot the Texans and Okies. Forget about messing with Texans; don’t mess with the Mutzes.

Although fiercely competitive, business owners looked after each other, too. In the high season of July and August, we lodge owners were manic about how fast we could display our no vacancy signs…but then we feverishly sought to help others fill up as well… not without smugly reminding them we were being supremely gracious… owing to the fact we were full first.

Those of us teenagers blessed with the opportunity to grow up here usually started as indentured servants to our parents and later escaped to work for actual, if paltry, paychecks from others. That said, we were mostly paid more than we were worth. But we had a blast.

These essays are mostly a backward look at my teen years in the 60s, working for my folks and grandfolks (Taylors, Carnetts, and Grindstaffs) when we owned the Red River Laundry, the Green Mountain Lodge, and Patrick’s Sport Shop. The hope is to pass along the fun and joy I had of knowing this valley, its people and visitors for more than six decades now.

My kids, now pushing 40 years old themselves, get it. I think most of my (4) grandkids get it, too. Many of my best friends from those years either remained here or have come back to make this world, three miles long and a half mile wide, part of their lives again.

You come, too. The fish are still biting and the girls are still pretty, especially the one I married. And Wheeler Peak still reigns sovereignly and majestically over the valley… If you can’t come back in person, read these stories and see if some fond memories rekindle… they most certainly will if you get it.

LITTLE WES

Little Wes as I called him was about 7 years old and as usual was decked out in his jeans, spurs, cowboy hat and a belt buckle that doubled his natural weight. It was the middle of the day in the middle of the summer and he was in the middle of the street busily stomping fresh horse droppings.

By the street I refer, of course, to what was the newly paved road from Rio Colorado at the South end of town and ending just north of the community house and the Village Inn. Tourists and residents, then as now, would make a circuit of that road and double back to Bitter Creek canyon, Dexter’s (Trading Post.), El Sombrero Lodge (Sundance) and Fink’s corner. Teenage boys would be Scouting for teenage girls, and middle aged parents would be scouting for their lost and potentially wayward teenagers. In the middle of this summer ritual was little Wes, oblivious to the traffic and dedicated to his task.

I seem to recall his real name was Glen Spiller and his folks owned Siesta Lodge in the middle of town as well as a horse stable at the north end. His Dad’s name was Wes, and Glen was a mini Wes in looks, personality and horsemanship, except that you wouldn’t expect old Wes to be holding up traffic while methodically stomping on fresh manure.

In the grand scheme of things in Red River, manure stomping, while not common, was not particularly remarkable either. Inconvenienced tourists passed by carefully, and the residents and business owners, seeing it was a familiar face, figured he had good reason to be thus occupied. Red River’s main street was often the scene of local curiosities: Porkypile, the reclusive miner, walking into town to do his laundry, buy staples of flour and wine and returning to his shack on the Goose Creek trail, Spec Wilson continuing his feud with Tony Simion by riding his horse into Tony’s bar, having fortified himself for the attempt with spirits bought and consumed at the competing bar, and wranglers, sensitive to the gastric processes of their mounts, spurring them hurriedly to make deposits in front of their least favorite merchants, were equally common and lightly noted events.

In today’s more complicated and regulated world, it is possible that people seeing a 7 year old stopping traffic while stomping meadow muffins would think about notifying the parents, the police, Family Services and an attorney. But in the early 60s, it was enough to know where the kid was and that he was not committing a felony. If someone told his parents, the probable response would have been: Well, tell him when he’s through he’s got chores back here waiting for him. Which would only have prolonged the stomping.

On this particular day, though, my curiosity had gotten the better of me. I had been circumnavigating the town, probably in an abortive search for tourist girls to impress with my smoke spewing ‘46 Willis and had seen Li’l Wes intent on his task for several laps duration. What are you doing?, I asked.

Stomping on new horse manure he replied.

Why? says I.

I wanted to see the juice come out of it, says he, looking at me as though to wait and see if I could think of a dumber question.

I couldn’t, so I said, Oh.

Give me a ride home? he asked. Probably got some chores.

I studied his boots a second, looked over my jeep, calculated the odds of finding a girl to give a ride to, and said climb in.

I’ve thought about that day often over the years. Li’l Wes modeled several important lessons for today’s young people:

1. He knew what he was doing

2. He didn’t get distracted by the traffic around him

3. He didn’t much care about what other people thought

4. He knew what his objectives were

5. When he was through he was ready to move on to something else.

I lost track of Li’l Wes over the years. I’d like to think he grew up to be a successful rancher... somewhere in his stomping grounds, so to speak...

TESTOSTERONE & WILLYS JEEPS

In The 60s in Red River, a successful adolescence culminated, for teenage boys, in being turned loose on the valley with a jeep.

We were known by our jeeps. The manliest jeeps were 40s vintage Willys models highly prized for their reliability, power, and cheap price tag.

If you had access to a jeep, you could, if you managed a few minutes off of work, join the continuous parade of teenagers slowly cruising the circular route from Rio Colorado to the Community House, back down High Street, around Fink’s corner and back to Rio Colorado. This took all of two minutes on a slow day. It killed time, allowed you to practice double-clutching, and served as a kind of automated mating ritual.

Teenage tourist girls usually did not have jeeps. Therefore, they were highly discernible to us town boys keenly on the lookout for stranded female pedestrians.

Wouldja like a ride? we would ask, hoping our voices didn’t break and betray our youth.

Nope, they would reply, and so off to another lap around town in search of someone more desperate or footsore.

If we ever were successful in talking a girl into the jeep, the thrill of success was usually over in 20 seconds, being as: a) in downtown Red River you are only 20 seconds drive from anywhere, and b) the