Tag: tourists

Whose Season is It?

I’m not talking about the holidays, but about tourist season. And coyote mating season.

The local economy depends on the human snowbirds who flock here along with pelicans and sandhill cranes and other winged visitors to our lakes and the Rio Grande. My runs in the desert are no longer solitary. I must have met six different people today, ranging from dog-walkers to a man trekking with poles. The sky was a brilliant New Mexico blue with flares of white clouds, and the sixty-degree sunshine felt even warmer reflected by rock and sand.

And then there was the coyote trotting past, trying to escape the human disturbances. Winter is the only time I see coyotes by day, out seeking a mate. I wonder how they feel when they keep hearing, seeing, and smelling us. Do we put a damper on the courtship mood?

I stopped, kept my distance, and let the animal have some space, then resumed my run. The encounter felt special compared to the polite smiles and greetings I share with hikers. Pure. Wordless. A glimpse of the wild world that still would be here if we weren’t.

Contrast

Tourists were cycling in shorts and sleeveless tank tops today. I could tell they were “from away” (a wonderful phrase I picked up in Maine) not only because they were clad for summer in January, but because they wore actual bike shorts—and helmets. A local cyclist is more likely to ride in jeans and have long gray hair flowing out from under a ball cap, while dangling a grocery bag from one hand or pulling some sort of wagon with his dog in it.

Another tourist I saw today, a man with cropped silver hair, was sunbathing shirtless outside his camper at the lake. No hat. No sunglasses. Getting a tan, of all things. I didn’t think anyone did that anymore, but if you’re from some snowbound Northern state, it might be hard to resist a sunny, fifty-seven degree day in the desert. Meanwhile, I was wearing long pants, two layers of shirts, gloves, a visor hat, wrap-around goggles, and sunscreen.

I enjoy winter here in southern New Mexico, but its beauty is familiar. If I imagine what this day would have felt like should I have been suddenly transported here the year I had a job in Maine, and the snowbanks were as tall as I was, I’d have thought I’d gone to heaven. Back then, I walked to work wrapped in a windproof snowsuit, taking cautious steps on perpetually icy sidewalks. I know I don’t live in paradise. Our community has its problems, and we need rain the way those half-naked Northerners need sun. It’s good to see them. They remind me to appreciate the ordinary and to realize it’s actually extraordinary.