There are many arroyos and canyons named Nogal, although I have never seen a walnut tree growing near any of them. When I say that I jogged upstream the sandy bed and smoothed stones of Nogal Arroyo, you will wonder which of the twenty Nogals that you find on the map I could be referring to. That is not your only obstacle to finding this particular Nogal Arroyo. Unless you are willing to wade through the Rio Grande at the confluence of that seasonal Nogal River and crawl through several overgrown irrigation culverts, your only approach to the Nogal Arroyo is a lonely desert trek across barbed wire fences and cattle guards. Smaller seasonal arroyos, choked with water starved mesquite, are the dry remnants of seasonal flash floods which violently fill these arroyos perhaps once every three monsoon seasons. They funnel the rainwater from the surrounding mountains into the Rio Grande, and all must be crossed laterally before reaching the eroded canyon walls of the Nogal Arroyo. Search your map in vain! You will not find the Nogal Arroyo that I jogged up that warm April day.
Nogal Arroyo drains into the Rio Grande, but from there continues uphill, reaching an origin nearly a mile above the desert fire. Nogal Arroyo winds through the desert from a wide mouth, meandering and narrowing along steeper eroded walls until The Nogal grinds through a deep slot canyon that would drown any jogger daring to visit during a violent monsoon. But this April day, the arroyo is dry, sandy and rocky. Although appearing to be dry on the surface,the river seeps just inches under the dry sand, allowing gravity to pull the arroyo river underground like a moistened sponge. During the late winter snow melt, one step on the dry surface of the Nogal Arroyo would pull the surprised hiker knee deep in dense quicksand. But on this warm April day, I inch my way down the steep, eroded embankment and step firmly onto the great Nogal Arroyo, looking uphill at the drainage channel and faintly trace the arroyo’s carved path between Socorro and Strawberry Peaks. Beyond those two lonely mountains, and beyond my vision, Nogal Arroyo enters the flat highlands of private ranch properties, slowly meandering toward the Magdalena Range. Nogal Arroyo then leaves the high desert floor to arch steeply upward through the alpine Water Canyon, ending the terminus of the watershed along the South Baldy ridge along one of the highest points in southern New Mexico. Although I have hiked that ridge many times, I shall not be jogging to those high altitudes on this warm April day. I have one destination in mind. I vaguely remember it from years past. I know I saw it once many years before, I am not exactly sure where, but I take a chance and begin my slow ascent up the dry Nogal Arroyo.
Many miles behind me, the Nogal Arroyo passes underneath the traffic rumble of I-25. The driver, anxious to reach the distant city limits of Albuquerque, will speed over the short bridge and never notice the dry arroyo that empties into the Rio Grande. Even if the driver did take notice, the Nogal Arroyo is only one of countless seasonal waterways that scour the entire drainage basin of the Rio Grande, and is dwarfed by the nearby Salado Arroyo. But on this warm April Day, my focus is the humble Nogal, and I slowly jog upwards towards the destination that may, or may not, be along its eroded banks.
My tough running shoes are not made for the gentle pavement. The thick tread leaves deep impressions in the firm sand and sure purchase along the smooth stones. The pace constantly changes along with the terrain of uneven stones, sand and wooden flood detritus. I tie my laces loosely around my shoes to allow for the natural swelling of my feet. My hands also swell from the blood that pumps into my extremities. My confidence that I rarely see a single human on these deep runs into the desert allows me to wear shorts so tiny that they do nothing but swaddle my groin, even with the assumption that everything growing in this harsh environment is armed with protective thorns that will gladly shred my bare flesh if I dare tangle myself in the overgrowth. I get hotter as the sun rises above the rugged horizon, and I am thankful that I remembered to wear my wide-brimmed hat. My heated sweat evaporates into the dry desert air as my body struggles to cool itself. Instead of the sweat cooling my brow, I am left with a crust of salt that accumulates to burn my eyes. I can moisten the rag in my belt pack and wipe my eyes of the burning salt, but I must be cautious about wasting the precious water that I store in a tiny bottle. The only other possessions tucked away into my belt are a dry biscuit, beef jerky, alka seltzer, some lemon drops, and a stopwatch. Running light and nearly naked into the harsh desert demands that I do not linger. I am a mere visitor without the provisions of domestic civilization to ensure my extended comfort and safety. If I disturb a rattlesnake camouflaged in the intermittent shadows of cresote, I will not even be able to call my wife and wish her goodbye. Overbearing concern for safety can be stifling.
As I make my way, gradually upstream, skipping over water-polished stones and avoiding flood detritus, the north slope of Socorro Peak comes into my view. As I retreat from civilization, and jog higher into the rarified desert, the occasional boot prints from the intrepid hiker become fainter and thinner. I admit the struggled thrill that I gain of breaking ground that is never visited. The signs of violent flooding and erosion become more evident in the exposed roots of desert fauna that drill deep into the cemented sediment in the deserperate search for water. The last monsoon rain was at least nine months ago, and the only water draining to the Rio Grande is the gradual snow melt from the South Baldy ridge which I see miles ahead of me, and only seeping deep under the arroyo sand. The most humble cactus has threaded roots that must siphon water from deep under the sand, and the ancient piñon and cedar have root systems that will crumble the most solid granite. Large flies and the occasional bumblebe, in their constant search for any moisture, will circle around my head hoping to absorb some salinated sweat or condensed exhale from my heavy breathing. I learned long ago to ignore these harmless annoyances, but on occasion I will inhale a fly that dared to venture too close to my mouth, and I joke that it will add a little extra protein to my diet.
I get closer to Strawberry Peak and I see how Nogal Arroyo carves the terrain ahead to meander between Strawberry and Socorro Peaks and climb towards South Baldy ridge. Yes, I am certain that it is up here. That vagaries of distant memories are refreshed knowing that I have been here before. I am certain that it is up here. I remember the slot canyon that I suddenly find myself in, with no escape if the flood waters suddenly cascade off a sudden thunderstorm on the high ridge. I remember turning to see the high view of the Quebradas, which glow pink and red when the sun begins to set behind Strawberry Peak. I remember seeing the distant green thread of the Rio Grande Valley far below, and the safety of the farmlands and throughfares. I know I have been here before. I am certain that it is up here. One furiously hot afternoon, twenty years ago, I ran on this same stretch of dry arroyo, and I found the tiny, refreshing oasis. I am certain that it is up here. Somewhere up here. Just a little further, as the slot canyon opens again to eroded sandstone walls. Just a little further, as I round another meandering bend in the arroyo. Just a little further, as I pass an abandoned and decayed horse corral from some long forgotten, pioneering ranch hand. Then I see a metal fin peeking over a cedar.
I was here twenty years ago. When I was younger I would dare run into the remote desert in the full summer heat, unlike this more tolerable April day. I was up here only once before, when I was a little faster, a little slimmer, and followed by a long departed panting dog. I thrilled, then as now, when I saw the metal fin peeking over the cedar. Just behind the ancient horse corral, hiding behind the cedar, was The Aeromotor. Just outside the eroded wall of the Nogal Arroyo, drilled into the ground, stabilized with cement and guy cables, stands a forgotten, steel windmill.
My casual reader may be questioning my sincere thrill over a common windmill. A windmill is ancient technology: mundane, routine, insignificant, unremarkable. I will suggest that such a reader has never ventured far beyond domestic civilization, beyond the constantly maintained, updated and improved. Here, standing miles from the nearest person, unconcerned about updates and improvements, certainly uncaring about human maintenance, stands this lonely steel windmill, with rotating vane and blades moving with every push of that most favorable breeze. The blades dutifully turn in the slightest movement of air without hindrance, as if they were freshly lubricated. Although unmaintained, the blades betray their age with the squeaking noise of turning metal. The coral is decaying as the last rancher left decades ago, but the windmill fins turn, unmaintained, uncaring, pumping a hollow rod deep into the spongy sands and siphoning the naturally filtered water into an abandoned cattle tank. The vane turns my way, and I clearly see the stamp of red paint twenty feet above: ‘AEROMOTOR - CHICAGO IL’.
The rod siphon pumps slowly in the gentle breeze, each turn bringing a single teaspoon of fresh water into a tank designed to satisfy five dozen cattle at a time. The water empties from the hollow piston into a tiny spout, and softly pours into the giant cattle tank, one fecund spoonful at a time. The last cow to drink from this tank disappeared with the last ranch hand in this area, yet the water is still pulled from the desert sands only for the benefit of the native desert inhabitants. As if by magic, untouched for decades by human hands, and only on the whims of air flow and turbulence, the steel blades turn, and perform the miracle of watering this tiny oasis of desert. I am familiar with most forms of desert life, but inside the water tank are all manner of unfamiliar grasses and floating pods, seeds dropped by some bird, thirsty after its long flight from the bosque. I can see through the clear water to the strange growth at the bottom of the tank, and I can even see the endemic isopods that make this tank their home. Floating pods, algae and unfamiliar growth did not deter me on that hot summer day twenty years ago when I initially found The Aeromotor. I joyously laughed then, as I joyously laugh now, at the cool oasis, and I threw my hot and grateful dog in for a swim. I take my belt and spare clothes off and jump into the cool water that has been pulled from the deep arroyo sands, and promise not to tell my wife that I spent several minutes sharing a tank with isopods, pond algae and, very likely, gallons of unsanitized wild excrement. I have no cares, no worries, only joy and laughter at the simplicity of my delights. I am cooled by the fresh water, and the salt dissolves off my skin and brow as I immerse my head under the surface. The water dripping from my hair will quickly evaporate in the dry desert air, but for the moment, I felt blessed for this ancient, abandoned treasure. Having found what I was looking for, and satisfied that I would not forget where The Aeromotor stands, I was finally anxious to run back down Nogal Arroyo, then take the long hike back to my truck. Thank you to that long forgotten ranch hand, for leaving the stable Aeromotor intact to refresh the rare person who explores the Nogal Arroyo.
