Adaptation

The big event in our neck of the San Luis Valley is the sudden cold. It’s snowing and the leaves aren’t all down. It went down to twenty-two degrees last night. But I shouldn’t complain—up in Denver they have a foot of snow. This storm is going to dump about four feet in the Rocky Mountains, the biggest “snowmaker” to hit Colorado’s Front Range in October since 1997, says Byron Louis, a National Weather service Meteorologist in Boulder.

Here in Northern New Mexico we had two or three inches of slush on the mountain roads. The snow let up for the day, but this evening it’s coming down again. When I went down to feed the horses this morning, the stock tanks were frozen over; I had to break the ice with a rake and do it again this evening. (So what ever happened to global warming?) The horses are growing out their coats as fast as they can. The humans are scrambling for gloves, boots and snow tires. It’s called “adaptation.” It’s easier if you have time to ease into it.

The weatherization people came last week—God bless ‘em—and caulked all the cracks around the windows and under the vigas (rafters). They also weatherized our front and back doors so that they’re tight. Then they wrapped the gas water heater with insulation and told us that would bring down the cost of hot water by 27%. They even changed all our old light bulbs for thirteen-watt, spiral compact fluorescents that are supposed to save 80% on energy we normally use for lights. The bulbs last up to nine years. Though they are 900 lumens, they seem a bit dimmer than regular bulbs. In fact, my first thought was that as civilization runs out of gas and oil, we’re going back in time. It took me back to my childhood during World War II in London, Ontario in the yellow clapboard house on Byron Avenue where every room was lit by one dangling, overhead bulb.

But—anything to save a polar bear.

On the way to town this morning I saw a coyote trotting across the road, all bushy and swa-vay. (Suave.) Not skinny and sly like the ones in the cartoons. On the way home in five o’clock traffic, close to the same spot, I saw a coyote—the same one?—dashing lickety split across the road between speeding cars, streaking through the fence on the other side, leaping over sagebrush. I always pay attention when I see Coyote. Two coyotes in one day—running in the same direction in the same place. Maybe it’s a sign. Of what?? The Trickster. Duality.

When I turned onto the dirt road that leads to our driveway, I was delighted to see nine does grazing in my neighbor’s field where alfalfa grew in the summer. No bucks in sight. I stopped, killed the engine and rolled down the window. Some heads came up and ears turned to me, but they went back to grazing. One of the does squatted and peed. Hmm. Never saw that before. Then she lifted her back hoof and scratched behind her ear.

When I went out an hour later to feed the horses, there were only two does in the field. I wondered where the rest had gone. All summer the rio was a mere trickle, but tonight when I crossed the bridge I heard the liquid rush of water. The mayordomos in charge of the acequias on both sides of the valley will shut down the ditches before they freeze over and turn the water back into the river.

Coming home half an hour later, I saw two does and a yearling up by the ditch behind my house. I stopped, rolled down the window and sang to them. Not words, just notes: “Oh oh ohhhh ohhh . . .” They stood perfectly still, their ears tuned forward. And me without a camera. (It’s in the shop.)

Once when I was driving in the mountains around Chama near the Colorado state line, I noticed a small herd on a wooded hillside. I happened to be playing a Rolling Stone tune, “Gimme Shelter.” I thought they might like the wordless intro in a minor key that croons like the autumn wind. I stopped, rewound and played it over and over. They kept munching and drifting down the hill toward the car until one of them was about five feet away. Some animals won’t be charmed no matter what you do, but the deer fall for it every time.