Earth River Sky

E A R T H

R I V E R

S K Y

A J O U R N E Y I N P H OTO G R A P H S T H R O U G H N O R T H E R N N E W M E X I C O R O B AT K I N S

INTRODUCTION The Journey

The list records moments that had reached a part of me I

Looking over the list I’d just written, it seemed quite simple: a

hadn’t known existed. In my journeys through northern New

few short lines on a page in my notebook, a record of what had

Mexico I sought to make a book of what I found. Now, I realized

most moved me about this place. I closed the book and threw

that it was northern New Mexico that had made me, had

it into my bag. In a few minutes I’d be leaving the hotel for the

defined to myself who I was at this stage of life. The list threw

airport, the end of one final trip to northern New Mexico after

this realization into sharp relief, much like the high desert light

years of searching to find its soul.

does to all it finds on a clear morning.

The day before, I had stood alone inside a church built

I was about to leave New Mexico again, but this time I had

almost two decades before America was a country. It was the

the comfort of knowing that a part of this world, this landscape,

last subject to photograph for my project, and I was struck not

and this light, was leaving with me.

only by what I saw, but also what I heard. Or, more accurately, Tierra Encantada

didn’t hear.

In northern New Mexico, the ancient elements of fire, earth, air

I wrote about that profound silence on my list, along with

and water converge in one place.

other things I’d experienced over the past few years that were

Though desert, the region is defined by mountain and forest,

indelibly written on my memory: morning light spilling across a dirt path; the scent of sage weighing the air after rain fell in

high plateau and deep canyon. The Rio Grande curves like a

the desert; shadows of vigas, or roof beams, laying on an adobe

backbone through the landscape, its route at times cutting a

wall; the sound of the Rio Grande competing with that of the

dramatic eight-hundred-foot gorge through volcanic stone. One

wind through juniper and pine.

constant in this world of contrasts can be best illustrated by the

Road across native land in Taos.

8

9

INTRODUCTION The Journey

The list records moments that had reached a part of me I

Looking over the list I’d just written, it seemed quite simple: a

hadn’t known existed. In my journeys through northern New

few short lines on a page in my notebook, a record of what had

Mexico I sought to make a book of what I found. Now, I realized

most moved me about this place. I closed the book and threw

that it was northern New Mexico that had made me, had

it into my bag. In a few minutes I’d be leaving the hotel for the

defined to myself who I was at this stage of life. The list threw

airport, the end of one final trip to northern New Mexico after

this realization into sharp relief, much like the high desert light

years of searching to find its soul.

does to all it finds on a clear morning.

The day before, I had stood alone inside a church built

I was about to leave New Mexico again, but this time I had

almost two decades before America was a country. It was the

the comfort of knowing that a part of this world, this landscape,

last subject to photograph for my project, and I was struck not

and this light, was leaving with me.

only by what I saw, but also what I heard. Or, more accurately, Tierra Encantada

didn’t hear.

In northern New Mexico, the ancient elements of fire, earth, air

I wrote about that profound silence on my list, along with

and water converge in one place.

other things I’d experienced over the past few years that were

Though desert, the region is defined by mountain and forest,

indelibly written on my memory: morning light spilling across a dirt path; the scent of sage weighing the air after rain fell in

high plateau and deep canyon. The Rio Grande curves like a

the desert; shadows of vigas, or roof beams, laying on an adobe

backbone through the landscape, its route at times cutting a

wall; the sound of the Rio Grande competing with that of the

dramatic eight-hundred-foot gorge through volcanic stone. One

wind through juniper and pine.

constant in this world of contrasts can be best illustrated by the

Road across native land in Taos.

8

9

words of Georgia O’Keeffe, who moved full time to northern New

reaches back ten centuries before the arrival of the Spanish.

streams and distribute it through a highly organized system of

worshipped here, how many couples married, how many

Mexico in 1949. The land here, she said, is “more sky than earth.”

I can see it in the potsherds I try not to step on as I wander

volunteer work under the aegis of a mayordomo, or ditch boss.

children baptized, how many ancianos eulogized.

Like most visitors, I enter the region from the south. After

trails through the landscape. Northern New Mexico is home to

While mountainous, the region is still desert, and water therefore

arriving in Albuquerque, the road leads north, following the route

eight pueblos that remain as vital today as ever, including Taos

forms a particularly vital component. It’s not unusual to drive

was constructed sometime prior to 1815. The distinctive forms

of the Spanish entrada into New Spain that began half a millennia

Pueblo, which is the oldest continually occupied community

behind a pickup truck in Taos, for instance, that has a sign on the

have an organic feel, familiar to anyone that knows the work

ago. Just south of Santa Fe, a formidably steep hill, known as “La

in the country.

bumper proclaiming “El agua es la vida.”

of Georgia O’Keeffe, who painted it a number of times and

The church of San Francisco de Asis in Ranchos de Taos

made the sculpted shapes an icon of New Mexico. Paul Strand,

The adobe architecture common in the region is also a

Bajada”—The Descent, from a northerly point of view—defines

In 1541, Francisco de Barrionuevo became the first non-

the southern border of northern New Mexico. For as long as the

native person to see Taos Pueblo. I wonder what this captain in

product of the Spanish arrival. The Spanish improved upon

Laura Gilpin, and many others photographed the church in the

Spanish have been in the region this volcanic escarpment has

Coronado’s expedition thought, newly arrived from Mexico, as

techniques of building with sun-dried mud bricks already in use

early 1930s, and in 1964, Ernst Haas, a true innovator of color

divided this new world into two distinct halves: Rio Arriba and

he looked at dwellings that rose five stories in some places and

by Native peoples, just as they augmented existing knowledge

photography, made a study of shadows and light cast by the

Rio Abajo: the Upper River and the Lower River. On cresting the

were already two hundred years old when he visited.

of the management of water. As with both, the Spanish brought

setting sun on the warm adobe surface.

In my wanderings throughout the region, it’s not unusual

hill the country’s oldest capital city, Santa Fe, comes into view

On a particular visit I made to the church the annual enjarre,

these ideas that have Moorish and North African roots.

or re-mudding, of the building is underway. Its outer coat of

Like the early Spanish explorers, like Georgia O’Keeffe, I’m

lying before the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. From here to the

to go for the better part of a day without hearing a spoken

Colorado border a hundred miles away, northern New Mexico

language other than Spanish. The town names mostly reflect

an outsider here myself. What my senses take in has a beautiful

adobe is re-applied each June to see it through another year of

exists like an island within the United States.

this Spanish influence, at times containing a dialect spoken

strangeness, one that stands alone amongst my wider travels

rain and snow. I strike up a conversation with one of the workers,

nowhere else but here, a remnant brought from the Iberian

in America. To walk through northern New Mexico is to wander

an engaging fellow named Juan, who tells me that most of his

everything else. Several times, standing in one spot in bright

Peninsula centuries earlier that has resisted change from the

back in time.

volunteer crew hasn’t been seen for a while. Would I like to lend

sunlight, I’ve gazed a hundred clear miles in one direction

outside influences of the wider world.

I particularly feel O’Keeffe’s words of the sky dominating

The physical landscape, too, reflects Spanish influence.

while in another a storm brings a curtain of rain from clouds the color of slate.

The dirt I walk on carries a memory of Native America that

10

a hand?

Heaven’s Mud

For a couple of days, I put down my camera and pick up a

Most communities in northern New Mexico have a network of

My ears adjust to the silence as I walk forward between the

trowel and plasterer’s hawk—la plana y la coca—and spread a

acequias, or irrigation ditches, that divert water from rivers and

pews. I wonder how many generations of Norteños have

coat of mud, called an alis, over wide sections of the church. An

11

words of Georgia O’Keeffe, who moved full time to northern New

reaches back ten centuries before the arrival of the Spanish.

streams and distribute it through a highly organized system of

worshipped here, how many couples married, how many

Mexico in 1949. The land here, she said, is “more sky than earth.”

I can see it in the potsherds I try not to step on as I wander

volunteer work under the aegis of a mayordomo, or ditch boss.

children baptized, how many ancianos eulogized.

Like most visitors, I enter the region from the south. After

trails through the landscape. Northern New Mexico is home to

While mountainous, the region is still desert, and water therefore

arriving in Albuquerque, the road leads north, following the route

eight pueblos that remain as vital today as ever, including Taos

forms a particularly vital component. It’s not unusual to drive

was constructed sometime prior to 1815. The distinctive forms

of the Spanish entrada into New Spain that began half a millennia

Pueblo, which is the oldest continually occupied community

behind a pickup truck in Taos, for instance, that has a sign on the

have an organic feel, familiar to anyone that knows the work

ago. Just south of Santa Fe, a formidably steep hill, known as “La

in the country.

bumper proclaiming “El agua es la vida.”

of Georgia O’Keeffe, who painted it a number of times and

The church of San Francisco de Asis in Ranchos de Taos

made the sculpted shapes an icon of New Mexico. Paul Strand,

The adobe architecture common in the region is also a

Bajada”—The Descent, from a northerly point of view—defines

In 1541, Francisco de Barrionuevo became the first non-

the southern border of northern New Mexico. For as long as the

native person to see Taos Pueblo. I wonder what this captain in

product of the Spanish arrival. The Spanish improved upon

Laura Gilpin, and many others photographed the church in the

Spanish have been in the region this volcanic escarpment has

Coronado’s expedition thought, newly arrived from Mexico, as

techniques of building with sun-dried mud bricks already in use

early 1930s, and in 1964, Ernst Haas, a true innovator of color

divided this new world into two distinct halves: Rio Arriba and

he looked at dwellings that rose five stories in some places and

by Native peoples, just as they augmented existing knowledge

photography, made a study of shadows and light cast by the

Rio Abajo: the Upper River and the Lower River. On cresting the

were already two hundred years old when he visited.

of the management of water. As with both, the Spanish brought

setting sun on the warm adobe surface.

In my wanderings throughout the region, it’s not unusual

hill the country’s oldest capital city, Santa Fe, comes into view

On a particular visit I made to the church the annual enjarre,

these ideas that have Moorish and North African roots.

or re-mudding, of the building is underway. Its outer coat of

Like the early Spanish explorers, like Georgia O’Keeffe, I’m

lying before the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. From here to the

to go for the better part of a day without hearing a spoken

Colorado border a hundred miles away, northern New Mexico

language other than Spanish. The town names mostly reflect

an outsider here myself. What my senses take in has a beautiful

adobe is re-applied each June to see it through another year of

exists like an island within the United States.

this Spanish influence, at times containing a dialect spoken

strangeness, one that stands alone amongst my wider travels

rain and snow. I strike up a conversation with one of the workers,

nowhere else but here, a remnant brought from the Iberian

in America. To walk through northern New Mexico is to wander

an engaging fellow named Juan, who tells me that most of his

everything else. Several times, standing in one spot in bright

Peninsula centuries earlier that has resisted change from the

back in time.

volunteer crew hasn’t been seen for a while. Would I like to lend

sunlight, I’ve gazed a hundred clear miles in one direction

outside influences of the wider world.

I particularly feel O’Keeffe’s words of the sky dominating

The physical landscape, too, reflects Spanish influence.

while in another a storm brings a curtain of rain from clouds the color of slate.

The dirt I walk on carries a memory of Native America that

10

a hand?

Heaven’s Mud

For a couple of days, I put down my camera and pick up a

Most communities in northern New Mexico have a network of

My ears adjust to the silence as I walk forward between the

trowel and plasterer’s hawk—la plana y la coca—and spread a

acequias, or irrigation ditches, that divert water from rivers and

pews. I wonder how many generations of Norteños have

coat of mud, called an alis, over wide sections of the church. An

11

alis is a watery mixture of mud with a bit of straw, a final layer to

New York Times lies flat on my lap, unopened. All I can do is

cover the centuries-old adobe bricks.

stare at the remnants of mud on my shoes and smile.

At times I’m high up on a ladder, leaning over with a

Representations of this protector of all waterways in

After stowing my tripod in the car and grabbing my backpack, I start on the steep trail into the gorge with its many

New Mexico can be seen in many petroglyphs close to the

switchbacks. My shadow stretches before me on the path, like

Rio Grande.

load of heavy, wet mud on la plana, my entire existence

Flow State

a Giacometti sculpture cast in dirt, thrown there by an early

held in place by the weight of Juan’s foot on the bottom

I seem to be the only person in Rio Grande del Norte National

morning sun that’s just broken free of the horizon. Fingertips

being relevant. Have minutes stretched to hours, or have

rung. I listen to him tell me about another church not far

Monument this cold November morning. Driving in through

of sunlight reach the cliff on the opposite side of the river,

hours collapsed into minutes? I can’t say, being lost in this

away that had a bucket of sparkling mica thrown into the

darkness I haven’t seen any other vehicles, either on the road or

exploring its crenellations tentatively at first, then slide down

extraordinary moment.

wet alis mixture, making the church appear to glow on clear

in the parking areas.

the stone face toward the river. The light seems to be seeking to

Two hours earlier I had left my hotel after discovering that

nights with a bright moon. I tell Juan that he must be a true

How long I sit by the river is hard to say, as time has stopped

27,375 Moonrises

touch, as I soon will, the water and feel its current.

It’s a story fixed in the firmament of the history of photography,

Over the next mile and a half, I descend eight hundred

adobero, a master of the art, craft, and science of adobe

a Starbucks card makes a great windshield ice scraper. The

work. “No,” he protests, “I’m just an hormiga, one of the ants

coyotes I heard throughout the night were quiet, asleep, I

vertical feet to reach the Rio Grande. The loose gravel of the

a story every photographer has read a hundred times. Ansel

who crawls over the church.”

imagined, along with the rest of Taos. Still in the grip of night, I

trail demands my full attention so as not to slip, and I remind

Adams, traveling through northern New Mexico on a late

had felt as if I were driving through a negative image of the town

myself to pause frequently and bring my awareness back to my

October afternoon, enters the Española valley a few miles west

after yesterday’s high desert brilliance.

surroundings and the beauty it offers.

of the Rio Grande. He sees the moon rising over the Sangre de

After the second day, I join my new Taoseño friends for a Bud in Juan’s basement. I listen to their stories and laugh along with

Now I’m alone with the ravens, looking down from the rim

them, tired and dirty, but happy to be with such good company.

Cristo Mountains in the distance, then notices something that

The only other human company I’ve had all morning has

As I sit, something keeps running past my head in the window

of the gorge at La Junta, where the Red River joins the Rio

been my shadow. At the trail’s end, I’ve entered another world,

causes him to abruptly stop, jump out of his station wagon, and

behind me, and I turn to see a playful goat in the yard outside.

Grande (La Junta is Spanish for meeting), and wait for the light

where Ponderosa pines create a shaded area around a natural

set up his 8x10 view camera.

Juan tells me I’ve really helped them out, and I apparently have

to bring the cool blue landscape below to life. The area’s 242,555

spring, and centuries-old native petroglyphs of elk and deer

a knack for adobe mud work. “I mean that, from right here,” he

acres were proclaimed a national monument in 2013 by Barack

prance nearby across a basalt boulder.

says, pounding the side of his fist against his heart.

Obama, and protects a record of 10,000 years of human passage through its landscape.

The next morning I’m on a regional jet heading to LAX. The

12

A small adobe church and village catch the last rays of sunlight, the wooden crosses in the camposanto on fire with the waning light. He calculates the exposure in his head and

The spring and the great river it runs to are inhabited

makes one photograph. Before he can reverse his film holder

by Avanyu, a horned serpent of Native American myth.

13

alis is a watery mixture of mud with a bit of straw, a final layer to

New York Times lies flat on my lap, unopened. All I can do is

cover the centuries-old adobe bricks.

stare at the remnants of mud on my shoes and smile.

At times I’m high up on a ladder, leaning over with a

Representations of this protector of all waterways in

After stowing my tripod in the car and grabbing my backpack, I start on the steep trail into the gorge with its many

New Mexico can be seen in many petroglyphs close to the

switchbacks. My shadow stretches before me on the path, like

Rio Grande.

load of heavy, wet mud on la plana, my entire existence

Flow State

a Giacometti sculpture cast in dirt, thrown there by an early

held in place by the weight of Juan’s foot on the bottom

I seem to be the only person in Rio Grande del Norte National

morning sun that’s just broken free of the horizon. Fingertips

being relevant. Have minutes stretched to hours, or have

rung. I listen to him tell me about another church not far

Monument this cold November morning. Driving in through

of sunlight reach the cliff on the opposite side of the river,

hours collapsed into minutes? I can’t say, being lost in this

away that had a bucket of sparkling mica thrown into the

darkness I haven’t seen any other vehicles, either on the road or

exploring its crenellations tentatively at first, then slide down

extraordinary moment.

wet alis mixture, making the church appear to glow on clear

in the parking areas.

the stone face toward the river. The light seems to be seeking to

Two hours earlier I had left my hotel after discovering that

nights with a bright moon. I tell Juan that he must be a true

How long I sit by the river is hard to say, as time has stopped

27,375 Moonrises

touch, as I soon will, the water and feel its current.

It’s a story fixed in the firmament of the history of photography,

Over the next mile and a half, I descend eight hundred

adobero, a master of the art, craft, and science of adobe

a Starbucks card makes a great windshield ice scraper. The

work. “No,” he protests, “I’m just an hormiga, one of the ants

coyotes I heard throughout the night were quiet, asleep, I

vertical feet to reach the Rio Grande. The loose gravel of the

a story every photographer has read a hundred times. Ansel

who crawls over the church.”

imagined, along with the rest of Taos. Still in the grip of night, I

trail demands my full attention so as not to slip, and I remind

Adams, traveling through northern New Mexico on a late

had felt as if I were driving through a negative image of the town

myself to pause frequently and bring my awareness back to my

October afternoon, enters the Española valley a few miles west

after yesterday’s high desert brilliance.

surroundings and the beauty it offers.

of the Rio Grande. He sees the moon rising over the Sangre de

After the second day, I join my new Taoseño friends for a Bud in Juan’s basement. I listen to their stories and laugh along with

Now I’m alone with the ravens, looking down from the rim

them, tired and dirty, but happy to be with such good company.

Cristo Mountains in the distance, then notices something that

The only other human company I’ve had all morning has

As I sit, something keeps running past my head in the window

of the gorge at La Junta, where the Red River joins the Rio

been my shadow. At the trail’s end, I’ve entered another world,

causes him to abruptly stop, jump out of his station wagon, and

behind me, and I turn to see a playful goat in the yard outside.

Grande (La Junta is Spanish for meeting), and wait for the light

where Ponderosa pines create a shaded area around a natural

set up his 8x10 view camera.

Juan tells me I’ve really helped them out, and I apparently have

to bring the cool blue landscape below to life. The area’s 242,555

spring, and centuries-old native petroglyphs of elk and deer

a knack for adobe mud work. “I mean that, from right here,” he

acres were proclaimed a national monument in 2013 by Barack

prance nearby across a basalt boulder.

says, pounding the side of his fist against his heart.

Obama, and protects a record of 10,000 years of human passage through its landscape.

The next morning I’m on a regional jet heading to LAX. The

12

A small adobe church and village catch the last rays of sunlight, the wooden crosses in the camposanto on fire with the waning light. He calculates the exposure in his head and

The spring and the great river it runs to are inhabited

makes one photograph. Before he can reverse his film holder

by Avanyu, a horned serpent of Native American myth.

13

and expose a second sheet of film, the light fades and the

sunlight. I set up my tripod, hurrying before the light slid away

his “classic razor cuts,” Faustino also had a consuming passion.

Edge of Light

scene ebbs into darkness.

into darkness.

Working well into his eighties, he began a project that he

Whenever I’m in northern New Mexico, I like to walk through the

named “Going Back Home,” an effort to paint all of the adobe

narrow interstices that are neither day nor night, out alone into

That afternoon Adams made Moonrise, Hernandez, an image that has become an indelible icon in the history of photography.

Faustino

churches found in countless towns in New Mexico’s north, many

the landscape. With only the sound of the wind writing its poem

It was made on October 31, 1941.

“Santa Fe was a place we could only dream about.” I’m sitting

in communities so small they don’t appear on any maps. He

across the desert and the rising tide of darkness about me, I

in the combination hair salon/art gallery of Faustino Herrera

eventually rendered over seven hundred churches. Faustino

think of the words of Walt Whitman: ”These are the days that

and the surrounding landscape, but the church is still there,

de Vargas, a true viejo, or old one, of northern New Mexico.

told me about painting trips he would take to small villages in

must happen to you.” These are the days that must happen to

somewhat hidden from where Adams photographed by trees,

A man of warmth and grace, Faustino is telling me stories of

the mountains on an unmarked dirt road that ran all the way

me, and this is the place in which they must happen.

telephone lines, and development. Extensively remodeled in

his past and what it was like to grow up in El Norte, speaking

to Colorado, his two German Shepherds, Zig and Zag, riding

the 1950s, it’s now used by the Penitente Brotherhood, a lay

quietly in the carpe mañana style that seems characteristic

shotgun along with him.

organization of the Catholic Church, and is surrounded by a tall

amongst his peers.

Time has wrought its inevitable changes on Hernandez

The town of his youth sits in the Tusas Mountains, fifty miles

iron fence.

If we view our unfolding lives as Whitman suggested, as the construction of a great house, I wonder: how many rooms may

I thought of these stories recently while sitting at my desk. A

we find? It’s a question I can’t answer yet, as I’m still searching,

work by Faustino of the church at Hernandez hung nearby, the

still discovering more.

from Santa Fe above the Rio Vallecitos. La Madera had no stores

bright, dancing colors never failing to make me smile. I looked at

few years ago, I saw the October moon ascending over the

and such a small population that Faustino and his brothers

it for a few moments, then went back to the task at hand, writing

a floor of petrified volcanic stone, walls of yellow-blooming

same Sangre de Cristo Mountains and Española Valley. There

would drive into Ojo Caliente seven miles away to socialize and

a check to contribute to Faustino’s funeral expenses.

chamisa and adobe, a ceiling of clouds stained with the magenta

had been over 27,000 moonrises since Ansel Adams made

drink beer on weekend nights. Ojo Caliente. To this day, not even

his most well-known image. At the foot of Black Mesa near

one traffic light. Santa Fe was far away, beyond his wanderings.

San Ildefonso Pueblo, the small adobe church of La Sagrada

What would Faustino have thought of the vertical metroscape of

Familia stands against a row of cottonwood trees lining the

New York or the horizontal reach of Los Angeles?

While traveling a small distance south of Hernandez a

Lately, I’ve spent a lot of time in one particular room. It has

Faustino is gone, but his stories and paintings remain.

light of dusk and a trillion constellations of stars.

Faustino was my friend, and I will never forget him.

It’s a place I’ve been in no hurry to leave.

Aside from his business as a hair stylist and barber, offering

Rio Grande. The crosses there, too, were catching the late

14

15

and expose a second sheet of film, the light fades and the

sunlight. I set up my tripod, hurrying before the light slid away

his “classic razor cuts,” Faustino also had a consuming passion.

Edge of Light

scene ebbs into darkness.

into darkness.

Working well into his eighties, he began a project that he

Whenever I’m in northern New Mexico, I like to walk through the

named “Going Back Home,” an effort to paint all of the adobe

narrow interstices that are neither day nor night, out alone into

That afternoon Adams made Moonrise, Hernandez, an image that has become an indelible icon in the history of photography.

Faustino

churches found in countless towns in New Mexico’s north, many

the landscape. With only the sound of the wind writing its poem

It was made on October 31, 1941.

“Santa Fe was a place we could only dream about.” I’m sitting

in communities so small they don’t appear on any maps. He

across the desert and the rising tide of darkness about me, I

in the combination hair salon/art gallery of Faustino Herrera

eventually rendered over seven hundred churches. Faustino

think of the words of Walt Whitman: ”These are the days that

and the surrounding landscape, but the church is still there,

de Vargas, a true viejo, or old one, of northern New Mexico.

told me about painting trips he would take to small villages in

must happen to you.” These are the days that must happen to

somewhat hidden from where Adams photographed by trees,

A man of warmth and grace, Faustino is telling me stories of

the mountains on an unmarked dirt road that ran all the way

me, and this is the place in which they must happen.

telephone lines, and development. Extensively remodeled in

his past and what it was like to grow up in El Norte, speaking

to Colorado, his two German Shepherds, Zig and Zag, riding

the 1950s, it’s now used by the Penitente Brotherhood, a lay

quietly in the carpe mañana style that seems characteristic

shotgun along with him.

organization of the Catholic Church, and is surrounded by a tall

amongst his peers.

Time has wrought its inevitable changes on Hernandez

The town of his youth sits in the Tusas Mountains, fifty miles

iron fence.

If we view our unfolding lives as Whitman suggested, as the construction of a great house, I wonder: how many rooms may

I thought of these stories recently while sitting at my desk. A

we find? It’s a question I can’t answer yet, as I’m still searching,

work by Faustino of the church at Hernandez hung nearby, the

still discovering more.

from Santa Fe above the Rio Vallecitos. La Madera had no stores

bright, dancing colors never failing to make me smile. I looked at

few years ago, I saw the October moon ascending over the

and such a small population that Faustino and his brothers

it for a few moments, then went back to the task at hand, writing

a floor of petrified volcanic stone, walls of yellow-blooming

same Sangre de Cristo Mountains and Española Valley. There

would drive into Ojo Caliente seven miles away to socialize and

a check to contribute to Faustino’s funeral expenses.

chamisa and adobe, a ceiling of clouds stained with the magenta

had been over 27,000 moonrises since Ansel Adams made

drink beer on weekend nights. Ojo Caliente. To this day, not even

his most well-known image. At the foot of Black Mesa near

one traffic light. Santa Fe was far away, beyond his wanderings.

San Ildefonso Pueblo, the small adobe church of La Sagrada

What would Faustino have thought of the vertical metroscape of

Familia stands against a row of cottonwood trees lining the

New York or the horizontal reach of Los Angeles?

While traveling a small distance south of Hernandez a

Lately, I’ve spent a lot of time in one particular room. It has

Faustino is gone, but his stories and paintings remain.

light of dusk and a trillion constellations of stars.

Faustino was my friend, and I will never forget him.

It’s a place I’ve been in no hurry to leave.

Aside from his business as a hair stylist and barber, offering

Rio Grande. The crosses there, too, were catching the late

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Morning light on the trail to Chimney Rock, Ghost Ranch.

Chimney Rock trail, Ghost Ranch.

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Morning light on the trail to Chimney Rock, Ghost Ranch.

Chimney Rock trail, Ghost Ranch.

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Piedra Lumbre basin.

Ghost Ranch evening.

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Piedra Lumbre basin.

Ghost Ranch evening.

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Trail worn into the soft stone landscape after centuries of use at the Tsankawi Native American site. Human activity at this location dates to the 1400s.

Inside a cave at Tsankawi. The ceiling is blackened from cooking fires.

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Trail worn into the soft stone landscape after centuries of use at the Tsankawi Native American site. Human activity at this location dates to the 1400s.

Inside a cave at Tsankawi. The ceiling is blackened from cooking fires.

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Ladder on La Fonda Hotel, Taos. Such ladders represent a connection between members of the community with the past, the universe, and each other.

The Church of San Lorenzo de Picuris, Picuris Pueblo.

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Ladder on La Fonda Hotel, Taos. Such ladders represent a connection between members of the community with the past, the universe, and each other.

The Church of San Lorenzo de Picuris, Picuris Pueblo.

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Winter light on Lucero Peak, north of Taos.

Clearing winter storm, Taos Mountain.

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Winter light on Lucero Peak, north of Taos.

Clearing winter storm, Taos Mountain.

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Sun and snow on pine trees in the Sangre De Cristo Mountains.

Winter tree, Taos.

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Sun and snow on pine trees in the Sangre De Cristo Mountains.

Winter tree, Taos.

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Snowstorm, Taos Pueblo.

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Snowstorm, Taos Pueblo.

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For over two decades, photographer Rob Atkins has embarked on a pilgrimage to document the unparalleled beauty of northern New Mexico that distinguishes it from the rest of the country. From its iconic adobe architecture—a palimpsest of its indigenous origins, Spanish colonial influence, and North African roots—through the high plateaus and deep canyons winding along the Rio Grande, Atkins’s unique photographs pay respect to the sublime beauty of a region that has inspired generations of travelers and artists. Earth River Sky presents Atkins’s physical and spiritual journey through northern New Mexico in a way that only a lifetime aficionado and artistic talent of his level could.

SPECIFICATIONS: Earth River Sky: A Journey in Photographs Through Northern New Mexico | Rob Atkins Photography/Travel | October 2019 Release | $65 | 160 pages | 12 x 9" | Jacketed hardcover 126 four-color photographs | ISBN: 978-1-943876-06-8

$65.00 ISBN 978-1-943876-06-8

56500

Published by Glitterati Editions

www.glitteratieditions.com

Printed and bound in China

9 781943 876068