by Darlene Foster
I am greeted by a chilly, high-desert wind as I enter the Taos Pueblo. I find it astonishing that this ancient site has been lived in continuously for over 1000 years. Currently approximately 150 people live within the Pueblo full time. The buildings are made entirely out of traditional adobe, with no electricity or running water in many homes. The russet sand coloured buildings blend in with the landscape; the bright blue doors creating a contrast and ladders to the roofs adding effect. I learn that originally the only way into the home was through the roof. Doors were added later.
We are invited into one of the homes to warm ourselves in front of the fire. Wood stoves and fireplaces heat the houses and are used for cooking. Bread and pastries are baked in hornos, outdoor adobe ovens scattered around the site. We purchase delicious cookies and pies made in a horno, which warm us from the inside out. We also sample fry bread in another home, made in front of us and drizzled with honey. So tasty.
The Pueblo is situated on both sides of the Red Willow Creek, the source of drinking water for the inhabitants. One resident explains that a legend tells of an eagle that dropped two feathers, one on each side of the river which was a sign for the ancient people to build the Pueblo at that spot.
Many of the homes are inhabited by native artists who welcome visitors to enter, view their art work, chat and make purchases. We buy a number of handmade items to take home as gifts, and a couple of pieces for ourselves. At a shop called “Morning Talk”, I buy a fabulous piece of pottery for my potter daughter, knowing she will appreciate the work put into it. Everyone is so hospitable and willing to take time to talk to us. We soon forget about being cold.
One friendly resident we chat with is Jeralyn Lujan Lucero. She is a painter, potter, soap maker and entrepreneur; to name a few of her many talents. But she tells us her most important job is that of mom to her three children. Jeralyn and her husband are raising their children in their ancestral home, living a traditional Pueblo life. I consider her children very fortunate indeed. I take the spirit of Taos with me in an art card signed by this talented woman, to hang in my home in Canada.
We explore the modern day San Geronimo Church, built in 1850, a Registered National Historic Landmark and still used by the mostly Catholic inhabitants of Taos Pueblo. The thick adobe walls, keep it cool in summer and warm in winter.
The ruins of the original San Geronimo Church built in 1619 and destroyed in 1847 during an uprising, are now part of the cemetery. All that remains is the bell tower in memory of those whose lives were lost. A feeling of sadness fills me as I look upon the graveyard and think of the lives cut short.
I reflect on the rich history, culture and spirit of this high desert oasis; derived from the past and continuing to this day. I leave with a feeling of peace and tranquillity and much respect for the native people who have lived here for so long and who welcome us with open arms.
The Taos Pueblo, located at the base of the picturesque Sangre de Cristo Mountain Range, is considered to be the oldest continuously inhabited community in the USA and has been designated a UNESCO World Heritage site and a National Historic Landmark.
Guided Walking Tour of Taos Pueblo
If You Go:
♦ Taos Pueblo is located about one mile (1.6 km) north of Taos, New Mexico at 120 Veterans Highway
♦ Check the website for seasonal hours and cost of admission www.taospueblo.com
♦ More about Jeralyn Lujan Lucero jeralynlujanlucero.wordpress.com
About the author:
Darlene Foster is a dedicated writer and traveler. She is the author of a series featuring a young girl who loves to travel to interesting places such as the United Arab Emirates, Spain, England and Alberta, where she always has an adventure. Darlene divides her time between the west coast of Canada and the Costa Blanca of Spain. www.darlenefoster.ca
All photos are by Darlene Foster.
And it is but a small part of the God’s carven world of the seven Canadian National and B. C. Provincial Parks hugging the Rocky Mountains’ Great Divide. So stunning the national parks; Kootenay, Banff, Yoho and Jasper along with the B.C. Provincial Parks Assiniboine, Hamber and Mount Robson were declared a UNESCO world heritage site in 1984.
Our now grown children with children of their own were but pre-teens when we last drove the parkway between Lake Louise and Jasper and we were stunned to see how far the Athabasca Glacier, that long intrusive tongue of the massive Columbia Icefield, had retreated. Already in natural retreat there are signs acknowledging the decline that have been hastened by global warming. They spoke of the advancing flora chasing the fleeing glaciers and of the inherent change so bespoken for wildlife. Where once the icy tongue licked the opposite side of the valley, at its greatest extent in 1844, the long flight saw it now crawling into the very folds of the great icefield itself. Here, atop the World, the ice achieves depths of 100 to 365 metres; enough to engulf cities, skyline and all.
Turquoise hued Peyto Lake is a short uphill jaunt from the highway parking lot. Oft photographed and resident on many a calendar the lake is laid out resplendent, guarded by its mountains and replenished by thin cascades streaking across their faces. Named after historic early trader and guide, Bill Peyto, the lake is safely viewed from a guard-railed viewpoint.
The Johnston Canyon waters ran cold and clear through the narrow chasm carved over the millennia, spilling white fury in misty display as they pass. It is claimed almost one million people annually trod its tended pathways, bridges and ramparts which swing over the very turbulence itself. Despite crowds politeness prevailed as people quietly stopped to let others pass. Cameras, hung at the ready – necessarily so as you would just take one picture only to find another waiting around the corner. At the lower falls (30 minutes in) rock walls appeared to almost close and the waters pounded into a pool hidden within a a hollow accessible through a carved tunnel at the end of a bridge crossing the chasm. Spectacular in the extreme, people lined up to experience the pounding, misty cavern.
Our second site sat, a hidden Shangri-La, high above the opulence of Lake Louise with its glacial backdrop and turquoise waters. To reach Lake Agnes takes a bit of effort; wending the switch back trail to the rock outcrop upon which a log tea house sits and a thin cascade tumbles free to Mirror Lake far below.
A short distance west from Takkakaw is the turnoff for Emerald Lake and the Natural Bridge. If it lacks the power of Takkakaw the Natural Bridge makes up for it in methodical carving of rock into forms as unique as a Henry Moore art piece. Where once a full natural bridge hung over the rage-whitened face of water but a vestige remains, itself a passing entity. Emerald Lake lies at the foot of the mountains, red canoes dotting its surface, even as the lodge recalls images of romance. At the parking lot a little ground squirrel community has entertained visitors for years. In the midst of wild beauty sits peace.
During those family days in Golden we would take the winter drive to Radium Hot Springs and the Sinclair Canyon jaunt into the park under the red-eyed gaze of the canyon cliffs to immerse ourselves in the inviting hot spring pools. The bracing cold did not encourage lingering in the hallway leading to the protected pool access but once within its warming confines soothing sensation embraced the entire body. In my bearded days both beard and hair would freeze in Santa Claus fullness to be melted away with a luxurious dip underwater. Mists covered the pool surface in eerie fullness parting occasionally to bear witness to mountain sheep cavorting on the rocks above. Lounging in the warmth of the pool, an experience even more appreciated with the aches of age, and gazing up to the surrounding mountains, is meditative and renewing.
In the neighborhood of Oakland, east of downtown Pittsburgh, resides the University of Pittsburgh campus. Dwarfing this campus is the 42-story high Cathedral of Learning. On the first and third floors of the tallest educational building in the United States resides a collection of 29 different rooms which honor various nationalities who have contributed to Pittsburgh’s history, and which must contain interiors that reflect any period before 1787, the year the university was founded.
I was fortunate enough to get a tour from the longtime director E. Maxine Bruhns, who came from humble beginnings (deeming herself “a West Virginia hillbilly”) to oversee one of the most special collection of rooms college students have the privilege of matriculating in. Her stories about the various rooms were very heartwarming, including the ones about her favorite room, The Early American Room, where some of the artifacts her ancestors owned are located. It’s best to make an appointment in advance to view the rooms.
Trundle Manor is billed as “The Most Unusual Tourist Trap in the World Meets the Most Bizarre Private Collection on Public Display.” When I arrived at the museum/home located in Swissdale (a borough east of Pittsburgh), I noticed a funeral limousine parked out front as I sauntered up the creepy steps. I was feeling a bit of trepidation over seeing a collection of dead artifacts and even more apprehensive about just how odd the curator, who goes by the name of Mr. Arm, and his assistant Velda Von Minx, would be.
As a travel writer, I’ve developed a passion for finding and taking great shots of the places I write about. So I enjoyed experiencing the history of cameras and photography at Photo Antiquities, located just north of downtown Pittsburgh. Bruce Klein, the director, intrigued me as he took me down the very black and white as well as colorfully historical road of photography, which began with him showing me one of the earliest ever photographs taken by Nicéphore “Joseph” Niépce during the 1820s. This museum prides itself on being the only 19th century photo museum in the United States and only one of a handful on this planet even though 20th and 21st century photographic history and items are also featured from Polaroid to disposable cameras.
I got to see the special exhibition of 19th century post mortem photos, mostly children, who were made to look as if they were still alive for their final images captured before they were laid to rest. And yes, they did give me the creeps, but my creepy feelings soon melted when I saw more positive 1800s photos of dogs and their owners.
Nice memories of owning a bike as a child flooded my senses again after my visit to Bicycle Heaven, located in an industrial park on Pittsburgh’s North Shore. It’s the result of Craig Morrow’s 30 years of collecting which he had to store the bicycles and parts in various garages around town until he was able to open up this complex that used to be a tractor plant.
I got to see the world’s largest collection of Schwin Stingrays as well as an array of rare, hard-to-find models like the ones made to honor Oreo Cookies, Marilyn Monroe, Coca-Cola, and Elvis Presley. Movie studios have even rented models from Morrow, and I saw one bicycle on display which was used in an upcoming movie called “Fathers & Daughters” starring Russell Crowe. Those interested in tricycles can view the first ever one made during the 1890s.
♦ Andy Warhol’s grave can be seen at St. John the Baptist Byzantine Catholic Cemetery in Bethel Park at Connor Road and Pennsylvania Route 88, south of downtown. A live 24/7 webcam monitors the gravesite.
The place to go in New Hampshire is the magnificent White Mountains, located in the central and northern parts of the state. Like many destinations in North America, this region is also best explored by car. There is no public transport and cars are simply the only way to reach certain places. And there are several places you will want to reach in the White Mountain National Forest.
Another major highlight is Franconia Notch State Park, a mountain pass with Echo Lake at its northern end. The viewpoint of Artist’s Bluff – what’s in a name – is breathtaking. There are no less than 48 mountain peaks above 4,000 feet in the White Mountains, the highest of which make up the Presidential Range. The tallest peak of them all is the appropriately named Mount Washington, located in the east of the mountains. It is possible to hike up the mountain – but be prepared, the weather can be dangerous –, but also to take the Cog Railway to the summit, or drive up. Either way, the views are spectacular (if it’s a clear day).
While New Hampshire offers towering mountain peaks and lakes, its western neighbor, Vermont, has a different scenery. A typical Vermont landscape consists of rolling hills – green in summer, orange in fall and white in winter -, picturesque villages, wide valleys and farms. Compared to New Hampshire, it is less rugged and spectacular, but more gentle and friendlier.
Just like New Hampshire, the best way to experience Vermont is by driving. Don’t even think about entering the interstate though. The small back roads are where you want to be. And don’t be afraid to get lost; that is exactly when you will stumble upon unexpected rural beauty. After living in Vermont for five months, I do know that that is the truth. Most small roads aren’t on the bigger maps and I have gotten lost several times. However, getting lost in Vermont is never frustrating. Although there is no ‘most popular destination’, there is in fact a suggested thing to do. State Route 100 crosses Vermont from north to south and essentially runs through the heart of the Green Mountains. If you happen to be driving across Vermont in the fall, let it be there. Make sure to allow time for a few detours.
Imagine the following scenario. After driving on an unpaved road through the woods for a couple of miles, you suddenly find yourself in a narrow valley, crossed by a fast-flowing river and flanked by hills on both sides. The hillsides look as if they are on fire; it is early October and the landscape is made up of all possible yellows, oranges and reds. In the valley, dozens of brown cows graze peacefully in still green pastures. A bright red covered bridge crosses the river, allowing tractors and other farm vehicles to reach the surrounding fields. The road follows the river and leads to a small village. On the way you occasionally pass signs saying ‘fresh berries’ or ‘maple syrup sold here’. The village consists of several wooden houses, most of them painted white, but there are some light yellow and green ones as well. The center of the village is the typical village green, a large lawn fringed with tall maple trees. Two gazebos stand on each end.
In the fall sunshine a man is raking leaves in his front yard and raises his hand as you drive by. It is a Saturday morning and people are looking for kitsch or antiques at this year’s last flea market. A little further on another guy is chopping firewood. You think about what it must be like in winter in a village like this. You imagine several feet of snow and you can hear the sound of wood knispering in the fireplace. But now, it is still fall and you want to continue your drive through the Vermont countryside. The road leaves the village and climbs up the hillside. Before you turn around a bend, you pull over on the roadside. You grab your camera, get out of the car and snap one last picture of the valley and village below.
The French Quarter Festival is a free annual music festival located in the historic French Quarter of New Orleans, Louisiana, first held in 1984. It features traditional and contemporary jazz, R&B, New Orleans funk, brass bands, folk, gospel, Latin, Cajun and zydeco played by Louisiana residents. There was an estimated attendance when we attended in 2012 of over 574,000, and over 732,000 for the 20th annual festival in 2014. The French Quarter Festival is funded solely from donations, sponsorships and grants. It is the largest free festival in North America.
The French Quarter is the oldest neighborhood in New Orleans, founded in 1718. The area includes all the land stretching along the Mississippi River from Canal Street to Esplanade Avenue, and inland to North Rampart Street, an area of 78 square blocks. The district has been designated as a National Historic Landmark.
As you would expect with a festival of this size, rooms are at a premium during the festival. There are many accommodations in the Quarter itself, but we feared that it would be too noisy to sleep there. We opted for a small hotel in the nearby Garden District called the St. Charles Guest House. A great example of NOLA faded glory, it featured air conditioning, a lovely pool, antique furnishings and very friendly and helpful staff. Just two blocks away was the famed St. Charles Trolley Line, the oldest continuously operating streetcar line in the world. The totally restored vintage streetcars were magnificent to look at. The fare was $1 (now $1.25), and the cars were jam-packed morning, noon and night during the festival. Despite this, one seldom had to wait very long for a ride.
Of course, fascinated as we were by the architecture and the culture, we had come to see and hear the music. Friends who had been before us advised that it was a “great little festival”. We could only assume that they were comparing it to the massive New Orleans Jazz and Heritage Festival, since half a million attendees over four days made it much bigger than any other outdoor event we had ever attended. The total of 21 stages, many of them as large as the largest festival main stage we had ever seen, was a bit mind-boggling.
There was a lot to see and hear in evenings, after the festival activities wound down, in what is probably the most musical of all cities in North America. We went to a Cajun Fais Do Do with Bruce Daigrepont at Tipitina’s uptown, a regular feature of the club. Several friends told us that we absolutely had to go see Charmaine Neville at Snug Cove, where she had been entertaining for many years. This was about the only real disappointment of our trip – she was much too self-indulgent and tourist-pandering for our liking.
Aside from being unprepared for the enormity of the festival, the other thing that was a bit of a surprise was the temperature. Mid-April in Vancouver is still quite moderate. We knew that it would be a bit toastier in the Deep South, but were still surprised to be greeted by the high humidity and mid-nineties temperatures (about 35 degrees Celsius). We slowly came to the realization that we just couldn’t take tramping around in the heat all day every day, so we decided on a couple of other activities.
I have been inexplicably drawn to its music and culture of New Orleans for most of my adult life. It’s a fascinating city, full of contradictions such as the enthusiastic celebrations of God and Satan that surround you all the time.
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