Another winter in Anthony passed.
One day, Linda, disenchanted with work at the private medical practice in Las Cruces, and likely dreading a third fiery summer in the Mesilla Valley, saw in a medical journal a job opening for an internal medicine physician in Alamosa, Colorado. After a phone call, she flew to Denver, caught a connecting flight, interviewed in Alamosa at a government-funded medical clinic for the indigent, and was offered the job. With my blessing, she accepted it. She also ate at a local Mexican restaurant she could not recommend enough to me.
So, nomads once again.
I, too, looked forward to the move. Although I had only the vaguest memory of Alamosa itself, I’d never forgotten that windy spring night when I made the car camp in a piñon woodland on a lower slope of La Veta Pass, and I gazed westward at the chilly, rosy embers of a dying sunset over the San Luis Valley, in which Alamosa is located. I liked that part of the world at once, although never imagined I’d be living there.
In Anthony, I researched Alamosa and the San Luis Valley in books and maps and on the Internet, to which I was now connected at home and work for the first time. And I liked what I uncovered.
In the winter of 1806, the explorer Zebulon Pike―who historian David Lavender characterized as a “natural dupe . . . earnest, ambitious, dutiful, and naive”―and his men, frozen and nearly starving to death, discovered the valley on behalf of the White race of the fledgling United States during their attempt to find the headwaters of the Red River. Some eight decades later, journalist Charles Lummis, one of the original promoters of the Southwest (and who, in fact, is credited with coining the geographical name “Southwest”) first beheld the Rio Grande in Alamosa as he tramped from Ohio to Los Angeles.
I learned that Alamosa, population about 10,000, is surrounded by farms and ranch lands. I was hoping this meant there would be the possibility of continuing the semi-rural life we were enjoying, despite the heat, in Anthony.
Although I handled the desert heat better than Linda, the prospect of cooler summers―Alamosa rarely gets above 90°F―was attractive. From my days of following weather reports in Denver, I knew Alamosa is routinely the coldest place in Colorado, even the lower forty-eight. Yet I now learned it is a dry cold: the San Luis Valley, being in the rain shadow of the San Juan and Sangre de Cristo mountains, is effectively a vast, if isolated, desert. The valley’s abundant crops―including lettuce, wheat, and potatoes―receive their water primarily from a huge underground aquifer; its pastures, from water diverted from the Rio Grande, Rio Conejos, and the occasional rains. Meanwhile, if I wanted to enjoy deep snows, I would easily find them on the higher elevations of the surrounding mountains.
I learned that the town is home to Adams State College―today known as Adams State University―where I might continue to teach.
I learned that the town of San Luis, in the southeastern corner of the valley, is the oldest continuously-inhabited town in Colorado, and that it was settled by Hispanics in 1851. Thus, I wasn’t too surprised to discover that Alamosa―Spanish for “cottonwood”―was 45% Latino. This suited me, as well. I’d made numerous Latino friends and acquaintances in my decade in New Mexico, and I came to appreciate many aspects of Latino culture beyond simply the food. “Perhaps because of his love of land,” Erna Fergusson wrote in 1941, “his disinclination to leave his native place, and his ability to enrich an austere life with simple pleasures, the Latin seems to have a basic stability which the Nordic in similar situations lacks.”
Okay, at the approach of the new millennium, millions of America’s Latinos were no longer living “austere” lives. Meanwhile, my life with Linda had been anything but “stable.” But I certainly didn’t lack for a “love of land” and what I felt were life’s “simple pleasures.”
Finally, I especially liked the fact that the Rio Grande, running as it does through Alamosa, would still be with me, still be a thread binding me to the Southwest as much as my new Latino neighbors. I tried to imagine the Great River’s character through Alamosa; would it be as different as Anthony’s section of the river is from Albuquerque’s? I couldn’t wait to see.