The Truth or Consequences of Culture Clashes, or Why We Should Build a Wall between Decorah, Iowa and Hatch, New Mexico, Maybe Down a Dry River Bed
Hatch, New Mexico, named after an "Indian fighter"--Edward Hatch--might have been an even better place to raise Apaches than to raise chiles but, today, chiles it is. The world authority on chile peppers, BBC News, says that Hatch is the home of "the world's best chili pepper".
When Mari saw a notice of this year's Hatch Chile Festival, we decided to hitch up the team to our Casita and be in Hatch. As a small, often repeated bonus, the road to Hatch from Tucson goes right through Texas Canyon, with the Dragoon Mountains to the north, and more Dragoon Mountains to the south. As a bonus, Texas Canyon is not located in Texas, but in Arizona, which is much closer to Tucson.
We have driven through Hatch for years, ever since discovering, on our second trip from the Upper Midwest to Tucson, that "the Hatch cutoff" eliminated a much longer, L-shaped drive from Hatch to Deming by going down to Las Cruces. Las Cruces is a good place, unless it is not where you wanted to go. Think of it as A to C, instead of A to B to C. Or, maybe, H to D, instead of H to LC to D. (But you are getting confused here, aren't we?)
The old cutoff--the old hypotenuse--was more fun, although the road is much better now. The old cutoff was a speed trap, funding a pyramid scheme of police cars and radar guns, with a speed limit that meant "limit!" One became a Calvinist driver at the Hatch cutoff. God and the New Mexico State Patrol were kind and courteous, but unyielding about what the dismally slow speed limit meant. And there was a Shack of Ill Repute along the road, as well as . . . oh, "antique yards" of rain washed and sun dried things for sale. I ask you, is a well-paved, 65 MPH, with solar panels and giant windmills off to the side, a better way to go? Is that what progress means?
Almost into Hatch/chile/Rio Grande River, we noted a County Fair grounds off to the left, with tents and trailers and a ferris wheel. "No, thank you!", we said, together. We, both, have lived in towns with County Fairs and corn dogs, and graded dirt parking lots. "We are going to the Hatch Chile Festival!". And a good thing it was!
We had reserved a spot at an RV campground a few miles north of Hatch, at the Percha Dam Site. I was uneasy. "Gutta percha", I kept saying, a kind of gum made from trees that is packed down into root canals excavated by dentists who always wanted to live along a canal alongside the Rio Grande River, where our campground was. The canal was bigger, as we discovered, than the Santa Cruz river running through downtown Tucson and, in addition, it was filled with water on its way to nurturing chiles, and tall corn, and festivals.
I do not know what the name, Percha, as in Percha Dam, refers to, other than that is is the name of a football-field-long dam, together with earthen berms for a total length of half a mile, that raises the Rio Grande river about six feet, making diversion of the water into canals possible. Hatch chiles are very glad for Percha Dam, as were we: we stayed in the campgrounds, never seeing the dam, alongside one of the canals.
"There it is!", I told Cooper: "The canal!" Cooper thought it was Silverbell Lake in Tucson, where he wades, but he thought the canal walls a bit steep, and just dabbled. Cooper is like one of the family. He makes it like having a child again, at the age of 70 or 85, but he is family, and we love him just as we love our other kids. Exactly like that, but on a leash.
The campgrounds were not manicured, but were pleasantly park land, and the camping sites were not lined up like diagonal parking at Wal-Mart or the Mall, but were nose-to-tail along the road, with cabanas almost everywhere, with water and electricity.
Our immediate neighbors were a family from El Paso, and they erected a tent city with pop-up tents and another second-story tent atop a pickup, ladder-high, and another shade-tent. It was a delight to see, and the kids played frisbee and captured lizards to take to school.
Decorah, Iowa, celebrates Nordic Fest once a year. Thatf town of 10,000 sometimes hosts 50,000 people over three days. Hatch, New Mexico has 1,600 people, and it hosts 5,000 people over two days. Hatch does it by sending most of the chile-heads out to the fairgrounds on the west side of town, so we went there.
The chile is much better than the fairgrounds. The green chile is better than any dog-on-a-stick I ever ate, and its magic does not end at the swallowing of it. It works its way and its magic all the way down through what might be called, upon a gentler playing field, the system.
We did not ride the ferris wheel, nor try to find a bucking bull. We went back to the town itself, marveling at the bumper-to-trailer-hitch traffic inching back to I-25. We bought groceries for the evening, and decided to see what places like Truth or Consequences, N. M., or Elephant Butte were like.
The graded-and-wetted parking lot dirt from the Festival Grounds, packed into our tire treads, made a whirring sound as we sped up, providing our fenders with a protective undercoat: "Just like Iowa!", Mari said.
Truth or Consequences, New Mexico, was just a few miles farther on, and upriver from a bigger dam on the Rio Grande. There was no truth in Truth or Consequences; just consequences. A long, grande sande bluff led down to the river-lake, and every inch of its shore had campers and tents and pickups and boats and dogs and kids and coolers of beer lined up, nose-to-tail, along its shore. Elephant Butte had no elephants: just a butte.
We drove back to Percha Dam State Park and fired up the grill. The little girl next door had another inch-long lizard, for school, and Mari gave her a plastic container with a lid so she could see and show it. Little Girl gave Mari a hug. I had another beer, and tended the grill.
Except for the fact that the battery on our pickup died in Texas Canyon, on the way home, and died again in our driveway, once we were home, and still is dead a day or two after, over the Labor Day weekend, it has been a grand outing, again. I am astounded, if truth be told: I grew up knowing that sand in my sleeping bag was a miserable thing, not to be endured, and here we are, in our dotage, puttering about in our Casita, dog-on-leash-and-lap, having a wonderful time!
When Mari saw a notice of this year's Hatch Chile Festival, we decided to hitch up the team to our Casita and be in Hatch. As a small, often repeated bonus, the road to Hatch from Tucson goes right through Texas Canyon, with the Dragoon Mountains to the north, and more Dragoon Mountains to the south. As a bonus, Texas Canyon is not located in Texas, but in Arizona, which is much closer to Tucson. We have driven through Hatch for years, ever since discovering, on our second trip from the Upper Midwest to Tucson, that "the Hatch cutoff" eliminated a much longer, L-shaped drive from Hatch to Deming by going down to Las Cruces. Las Cruces is a good place, unless it is not where you wanted to go. Think of it as A to C, instead of A to B to C. Or, maybe, H to D, instead of H to LC to D. (But you are getting confused here, aren't we?)
The old cutoff--the old hypotenuse--was more fun, although the road is much better now. The old cutoff was a speed trap, funding a pyramid scheme of police cars and radar guns, with a speed limit that meant "limit!" One became a Calvinist driver at the Hatch cutoff. God and the New Mexico State Patrol were kind and courteous, but unyielding about what the dismally slow speed limit meant. And there was a Shack of Ill Repute along the road, as well as . . . oh, "antique yards" of rain washed and sun dried things for sale. I ask you, is a well-paved, 65 MPH, with solar panels and giant windmills off to the side, a better way to go? Is that what progress means?
Almost into Hatch/chile/Rio Grande River, we noted a County Fair grounds off to the left, with tents and trailers and a ferris wheel. "No, thank you!", we said, together. We, both, have lived in towns with County Fairs and corn dogs, and graded dirt parking lots. "We are going to the Hatch Chile Festival!". And a good thing it was!
I do not know what the name, Percha, as in Percha Dam, refers to, other than that is is the name of a football-field-long dam, together with earthen berms for a total length of half a mile, that raises the Rio Grande river about six feet, making diversion of the water into canals possible. Hatch chiles are very glad for Percha Dam, as were we: we stayed in the campgrounds, never seeing the dam, alongside one of the canals.
The campgrounds were not manicured, but were pleasantly park land, and the camping sites were not lined up like diagonal parking at Wal-Mart or the Mall, but were nose-to-tail along the road, with cabanas almost everywhere, with water and electricity.
Our immediate neighbors were a family from El Paso, and they erected a tent city with pop-up tents and another second-story tent atop a pickup, ladder-high, and another shade-tent. It was a delight to see, and the kids played frisbee and captured lizards to take to school.
Decorah, Iowa, celebrates Nordic Fest once a year. Thatf town of 10,000 sometimes hosts 50,000 people over three days. Hatch, New Mexico has 1,600 people, and it hosts 5,000 people over two days. Hatch does it by sending most of the chile-heads out to the fairgrounds on the west side of town, so we went there.
We did not ride the ferris wheel, nor try to find a bucking bull. We went back to the town itself, marveling at the bumper-to-trailer-hitch traffic inching back to I-25. We bought groceries for the evening, and decided to see what places like Truth or Consequences, N. M., or Elephant Butte were like. The graded-and-wetted parking lot dirt from the Festival Grounds, packed into our tire treads, made a whirring sound as we sped up, providing our fenders with a protective undercoat: "Just like Iowa!", Mari said.
Truth or Consequences, New Mexico, was just a few miles farther on, and upriver from a bigger dam on the Rio Grande. There was no truth in Truth or Consequences; just consequences. A long, grande sande bluff led down to the river-lake, and every inch of its shore had campers and tents and pickups and boats and dogs and kids and coolers of beer lined up, nose-to-tail, along its shore. Elephant Butte had no elephants: just a butte.
We drove back to Percha Dam State Park and fired up the grill. The little girl next door had another inch-long lizard, for school, and Mari gave her a plastic container with a lid so she could see and show it. Little Girl gave Mari a hug. I had another beer, and tended the grill.
Except for the fact that the battery on our pickup died in Texas Canyon, on the way home, and died again in our driveway, once we were home, and still is dead a day or two after, over the Labor Day weekend, it has been a grand outing, again. I am astounded, if truth be told: I grew up knowing that sand in my sleeping bag was a miserable thing, not to be endured, and here we are, in our dotage, puttering about in our Casita, dog-on-leash-and-lap, having a wonderful time!
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