One More Day in Cimarron.

After Thanksgiving dinner and the tour of the St. James, we took a stroll through the tiny town of Cimarron. It was a lovely warm day with the sun smiling down on us and it felt good to walk with our bellies full.

It seemed unfair to entirely focus on the hotel in town, being that the village itself is so endearing. A famous ranch here, Chase Ranch, is the alleged origin of the Marlboro Man. It's also surrounded by high-adventure bases, national parks, and state wildlife areas. It's a popular destination for those who love the rugged beauty of the natural world.

So I thought it deserved one more blog entry, taking one more day to feature a few of my favorite shots from our amble down the street.

There are some incredibly charming things here. We've never been through this town without viewing at least six deer lounging about in somebody's yard. And there are horses everywhere. Seems everyone has one.

This cute place, called the Cimarron Mercantile, sits empty.

And this bitty gem is the Village of Cimarron Municipal Court building. Can't you just see the highfalutin lawyer stepping out of the Lexus, keying the alarm as she teeters across the threshold in her stiletto heels and $1000 suit...? No? Neither can I. ;)

What a great afternoon this was.

Cimarron was established in 1841 and by 1870 was known as the cowboy capital of northern New Mexico. When the railroad came through in the 1890s, Raton took most of its thunder, having been chosen to house the tracks. That's when the travel through Cimarron slowed to a trickle and the Santa Fe Trail began its descent into obsoletion, dragging the St. James Hotel along with it.

Today Cimarron still stands, perhaps not as tall as it once did, but it's no ghost town. Thanks to its location quietly kneeling at the base of the Palisades Sill in Cimarron Canyon State Park, tourism in the summertime helps keep its unassuming heart beating.

The two most important names found in this part of Colfax County are Beaubien and Maxwell, their families united by marriage and historically linked to the region's development, its wars, and its very existence. For anyone interested in American history, it's a fascinating chapter in the story of our country, worth a trip to the library.

This is the historic mill in town, now a museum, originally built by Lucien Maxwell, a generous man. Its painting adorns the wall of the St. James, featured yesterday.

It's called the Aztec Grist Mill and was active from 1860-1864. Driven by water, it processed wheat and corn for the area residents. In 1861 it also became the Indian Agency headquarters for the surrounding Utes and Jicarilla Apaches.

Today, just a tribute to what once was. I wonder if Lucien Maxwell ever conceived that his name would be blogged about 170 years after he moved to New Mexico from Kansas...

As we strolled down the dusty road, we talked about the warmth of the people in this part of the country. Always welcoming, eager to shake your hand and know your name. As if telepathically attempting to prove our theory, this nice man saw us admiring his horse and enthusiastically invited us through the gate, into his yard to meet him up close and personal.

The pony is 29 years old, "at the end of his life" he said. He's being transported to pony heaven to live out the rest of his peaceful existence in the company of an old lonely donkey and a friendly pack of horse loving dogs. The man's from Springer, a neighboring location, rescuing the horse from a life in a stable, "not suitable for a horse" he said. The open range is what he deserved. The open range would be his Thanksgiving gift.

He said they'd recently lost their 35 year old horse, having spent three years treating her for melanoma. She was all white. Not a fair hand to draw in the New Mexico sun, but they tried hard to beat the cancer. Finally, they understood it was her time, and had her put to sleep a month ago. Since then, the donkey lived alone, which was unacceptable. Relocating the pony was a win-win for everybody. Warmed my heart.

The nice man then became a mini-tour guide, pointing us down the road where three deer were resting in so-and-so's yard. We needed to be sure to see that. (We had.) And we needed to be sure to visit the tiny hidden cemetery, sending his sons running down the road in order to point out its location.

It was easy to miss, and we most certainly would have were it not for his kind services. It was beautiful to view, right at sunset. So peaceful. So quiet. Pabla Beaubien, and her 3 year old granddaughter Verenisa Maxwell.

Paying our respects to the two families seemed perfectly appropriate, having enjoyed ourselves so much while visiting their town on Thanksgiving. An exquisite ending to a lovely day.

Ghosties Galore- part 2

Upstairs at the famous St. James Hotel, Cimarron, New Mexico. This is the poker gathering spot and the scene of one of my favorite stories associated with this place. In the 1980's a man took a job traveling around rural New Mexico installing phone booths. He stayed here at the St. James for two nights. On the second night, he awoke to the sound of loud voices out in the hallway. Unable to sleep, he emerged from his room to see about all the noise, finding a group of six people in the small poker room. They were dressed in period clothing but he assumed there was some kind of event that night which explained the attire. He thought nothing of it. The air was thick with cigar smoke. He wafted his hand in front of his face to chase it away. Curling his nose, he wondered how it was they were getting away with such heavy smoking when there was in fact a no smoking policy in the hotel. Surely they could smell it downstairs. He leaned against the doorway, casually observing the game. A player asked him to join in for a $20 ante. He unfortunately had no cash on him, so had to decline. "Suit yourself", the man said and dropped his eyes back down to his cards. He watched for a few minutes more, then ambled back to bed.

In the morning he walked down to the lobby. On his way, he peered into the poker room to find it perfectly tidy, with no residual smell of cigar smoke. Checking out, he casually asked the woman at the front desk if there had been any big winners last night. She stared at him blankly. "What do you mean?" she inquired. "The poker game here last night. Did anyone win big?" She shook her head, looking mildly amused at his confusion. "Sir, there was no poker game here last night. You were the only guest in the hotel." Wha....?! He had no idea that spirits could look so solid. So real. Had he known, there is so much he would have asked them. For starters, their names. Anything. He wouldn't have left so soon. If only... Can't you just feel his regret?

All of this is original. The peeling wallpaper, the lace curtains, everything. It is amazing to me that this wallpaper is 100 years old and still so vibrant! And talk about a heavy atmosphere up here. It's like slogging through waist high water. But warm. And comfortable. Thick with history, the memories up here swirl, accessible to anybody. It's so exciting.

Room 18 belongs to Thomas James Wright, and is kept locked at all times. They don't allow people to look in, and they certainly don't allow people to sleep here. Back in the 1800s Thomas passed through here, actually winning the ownership rights to the hotel in a high stakes poker game. On his way back to his room he was shot in the back, falling into the room, slowly bleeding to death behind the locked door. In the morning, he was found dead on the floor, in a sea of his own blood. He remains in this room today, causing illness and terror to all who enter. He has physically pushed people to the ground upon entering, not allowing them to rise, and commonly manifests as an angry ball of hovering orange and red light. They enter the room once a year to fill a shot glass full of Jack Daniels and tidy his room. The local urban legend is that before they locked this room to the public, a few hotel patrons staying within died of unexplained causes. Thomas likes his privacy. From the hallway, you can see into the room a little, due to the wide gap above the door and its frame. In the photograph, it looks like a shadow at the top of the door, but it's actually an opening. You can feel the room inhale and exhale, like a living entity.

The brochure for the hotel speaks openly of the ghosts here and of them the employees are respectful. The question of believing is laughable. Those who don't are thought of as stunted. You can't possibly experience the things that go on here and come away doubting the existence of unexplained phenomena. To address this, they have the following printed literature available to their guests: "Now many of the lesser known characters from years past make their presence known to current guests and employees of the hotel. Imagine hearing giggling children running down the hall when there are none in the hotel. Smell the scent of rose perfume- so strong you can barely stand it but no one is there. The frustration of employees who set up a dining table only to return and find all the silverware piled in the middle. You may see a cowboy looking back at you from a mirror who is a ghost with his own private room in the hotel. No one knows for sure why they are here, but we respect their right to 'live' at the St. James."

The art here is so fun. This is an old painting of an historic mill in town, the actual building I've also photographed for another entry.

Here's Aaron strolling down the hall.

And here's the energy presence which was following him. It wasn't scary at all. It felt like someone who simply wanted to join our party, like a good host might. It was probably Mary Elizabeth who is frequently seen in this hallway. I showed the digital image to our tour guide after I took it, and he was excited. "That's a ghost!" he said. I asked him about his favorite experience here and he told us that while they were making some repairs to the saloon downstairs, they were carrying a large table. They paused to get a better grip. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a man with a white cowboy hat standing there watching them. He turned his eyes to the figure, expecting to find his boss supervising their struggle. When his gaze met the man, instead of a solid person he found nothing but an outline standing among them. It was like someone took chalk and drew a figure, coloring in only his white hat. Immediately, every hair stood on end, and he had goose pimples all over his body so exaggerated they hurt. He's had plenty of experiences here, but that one, such an intimate exchange, takes the cake.

This is a very large and famous painting. You can reference its size from the picture of Aaron in the hallway above. The detail which makes it so special is that over the years a shadow has materialized in the form of a cowboy standing in the gap between the 2nd and 3rd men painted. Who said ghosts don't have a sense of humor. I find this hilarious.

So that's our tour of the St. James Hotel. I hope you enjoyed it. What I really hope, however, is that someday you can experience this yourself. Firsthand experiences like this are always worth so much more than somebody else's account. The hotel is 30 minutes from my home in Raton, so I'll be back. Perhaps today even. :)

Ghosties Galore- part 1

The St. James Hotel in Cimarron, New Mexico. An incredible place. I hope everyone at some point in their life, has the opportunity to experience this gem firsthand. As I mentioned previously, my husband and I along with two good friends spent Thanksgiving afternoon here. We had a really excellent turkey dinner and then ambled around the hallways, exploring every shadowed alcove.



As I explained in my entry on November 8th, 26 Dead and Wandering, this hotel has one of the richest histories in all of New Mexico. Back in the 1800s, this was one of the most prominent hot spots along the Santa Fe Trail. Pretty much anyone you've heard of from this era has signed the guestbook, their signatures still here, permanently archived into the leather bound registry, crisp paper yellowed with age, radiating Americana.

In 1872, amidst the heyday of Western lawlessness, the Lamberts opened this hotel and saloon. (See the 11/8 entry for a more detailed history.) There were 26 murders here, and those are only the historically recorded ones. Sometimes the person killed was never identified, being remembered only as "the musician" or "the black fella". People wandered in and out of here from all corners of the world. Adorning the walls, floors, and whatever else can hold a plaque, painting, or gravestone are individual tributes to those who fell here, killed here, or tried to uphold the "law" vigilante style. Cimarron is Spanish for wild and unruly. Back then legality was measured by who pulled the trigger the fastest.

Just as it was in the late 1800s, with strangers coming and going, each one more notorious or mysterious than the last, so it remains today. Only today's activity seems to be mostly of the paranormal variety. This hotel has its four ghostly regulars, considered residents, as I detailed in the November 8th entry. But even more interesting than that, it seems to be some sort of congregation spot for spirits wanting or needing to relive those days some how.

Not to be outdone by the ethereal universe, the steadfast physical universe also thrives here, represented by achingly gorgeous antique furniture and fixtures of all types. It's stimulation overload, all around.

The bullet holes in the saloon's tin ceiling remain. Between floors are wooden planks three feet thick, the builders having anticipated guns a'blazin during the construction. This way, nobody got shot while peacefully hanging out in their rooms upstairs.

It was a holiday. Things were closing down early so staff members could get home to their families, but we were free to roam as long as we liked. This is the saloon, exactly as it stood over a hundred years ago. Stepping into this room, the air feels alive. Though seemingly empty, it still ripples with the wild laughter and raucous piano music of 1870. In fact, it feels like ambulating through a crowded room, shimmying sideways through an onslaught of bar patrons, protecting your glass of wine so you don't end up wearing it down your front.

It's easy to tell a haunted room, because the air feels heavy. In fact, it feels as though somebody's sitting on your chest. It's not uncomfortable, but to breath in and out takes effort. And your heart begins to beat wildly. There was, however, no fear associated with this hotel. Just pure adrenaline. This particular room, the saloon, hosts a spirit regular in the form of a congenial, bearded cowboy who wears a white hat. He is seen in the mirror mostly, though his apparition has been spotted out within the room as well. So I began taking pictures of the mirror. That's me, behind the flash, to the right. I was focusing on the mirror panel to the far right, but out of the corner of my eye I saw movement in the center panel, far right. There was nobody but me in the bar. If you look above the group of blue Skye Vodka bottles, you can see haziness, which moved. So when I got home I blew that image up.

Among other ghosts within this image, there is a visible bearded cowboy with a white hat. His congeniality may not been seen, but can certainly be felt. What would be a word to describe such a moment? Cool...? Just doesn't seem to do it justice... This is one of my most exciting photographic moments to date. Just. So. Cool. What an experience. To view it here is one thing. Try sitting there and actually seeing the congregation inside the mirror move and carry on, as if they're viewing us as zoo animals through a solid enclosure. Talk about a surreal, through-the-looking-glass moment...

Here the hazy group has now moved to the left of the antique cash register. I could have plunked myself down on the bar stool, and done nothing but stare into that mirror for the rest of my life. I promise you, what you feel in this room is that phenomenal. And I came to this hotel hoping I'd capture an orb... Talk about an experience way beyond expectations.

And look at the ghosts in this shot! Oh wait... That's Susan and Jim. Our friends. ;)

As you can see, they're very much alive. Two of the sweetest people on the planet. Here they are standing in front of a row of paintings commemorating all the famous people known for having frequented this place. For example, did you know that Lew Wallace, the author of Ben Hur wrote the entire novel here while holed up in his hotel suite? Just one of a billion fun facts.

One last shot of this entrancing room before we commenced with further exploration. Don't you just love it? I have a feeling I'll be back here hundreds of times. If I have my way anyways.

Okay, back to earth now, no more ghosties until tomorrow's entry. For now, I want you to feast your eyes on the physical beauty of this place. For instance, take the hotel's original safe. A work of art in and of itself.

And a shot of the front lobby. Through this door you can see the roped off stairs to the haunted rooms of the 2nd level. We were able to tour that, but I'll share those photos with you tomorrow. There was far too much beauty here for just one blog entry. Through this door, down the hall on the first level, they also rent out rooms. They had one roped off, just so a person could see inside. Each room is originally decorated, rustic but elegant, a trip back to the late 1800's. There are no phones, no televisions, no electronics of any kind. I imagine there's enough electromagnetic energy here to plague even the most patient of repair men or women. Probably easier to just leave them out of the rooms. Aaron wandered down the 1st floor hallway and thought about peering into a room when he noticed the rope in the doorway, slowly swaying back and forth methodically. The pace never slowed, just rocked back and forth, though nobody was down that hallway nor anywhere near the room.

He didn't take a closer look. I asked him why he didn't come get me so that I could see. He kind of looked confused and said, "I don't know...". When you see something like that, no matter how calm you appear to be on the outside, it tends to utilize most of your mind. Sometimes a simple concept such as grabbing someone else to see it with you, escapes your thought. In this picture is the original guestbook with all of the 19th century celebrity signatures.

And this little chair was so sweet, with the fringes on the bottom of the footstool. One of the cutest pieces of furniture I've seen.

But all of the furniture within the hotel is meticulously preserved and a work of art. For this reason alone, it's worth a visit. It's like a museum of 19th century charm.

Here's Jim, Susan, and Aaron checking out some historic literature.

Elegant. Back then, downright opulent.

Every detail, charming to say the least.

Tomorrow we go upstairs. And yes, there'll be more ghosties up there.

Happy Day To You.

Getting ready to have my fun today, so no real post. Just an image of what I'm most thankful for. Whether or not you're one of those who celebrates on this day, I wish you a wonderful one, full of peaceful images and the deep recovery of tryptophan naps. XOXO, Kristy

The other Las Vegas!

Las Vegas, New Mexico, the home, and scene of Benito's death is about 90 minutes south of Raton. On my way to Santa Fe last weekend I took a detour through town, just to pay my respects to Aaron's co-worker. He, as you know (if you regularly read my blog), was recently murdered here after confronting an erratic driver he thought was drunk. Nope, not drunk. Just a young kid insane from too much time spent holding a machine gun on the streets of Iraq.

So this is Las Vegas, with its reputation for crime and dilapidated buildings. My friend and landlady was at my house this week helping with my ongoing floor project. When I told her that I took a drive through its plaza on Sunday she stopped what she was doing, curled her nose a little, dropped her pitch and said, "So what'd you think of Las Vegas?"

The truth is I really liked it. It helped that I drove through around 11 am on a bright blue Sunday morning. There's a huge Catholic church in the middle of town. As I rolled through the sound of pealing bells, it seemed as though every resident came ambling out those huge wooden doors, laughing, and radiating contentment. It had a really nice feel to it. Back in 1835, Las Vegas was originally called Nuestra Senora de Los Delores de Las Vegas Grandes (Our Lady of the Sorrows of the Great Meadows). Wow. Quite a mouthful.

And look at this place. The Plaza Hotel. What a beauty, right? This building is nothing short of a masterpiece. It is spectacularly preserved, an obvious jewel to this beleaguered city. It also happens to be haunted, haunted, haunted! One of the most historic structures in New Mexico. And a very cool cinema fun fact for you, this is the hotel where that incredible scene from No Country For Old Men was filmed, a movie made for the energy of New Mexico. Happens to be one of my favorite flicks of all time... but I digress.

Built in the mid-1800's this hotel is thought to be haunted by Byron T. Mills, a prominent Las Vegas lawyer and the owner of the hotel for some decades. He died around 1945 during which time he was actively making plans to demolish the building. He was selling off furniture and such, openly lamenting his guilt for planning to destroy such a gorgeous landmark, and then he died. It's thought that his spirit stayed on within the building due to love or guilt for having contemplated its demise. He mostly hangs out around room 310 and is identified by cigar smoke accompanied by the strong scent of lilac perfume. For this reason it is thought that a woman accompanies him. He digs the ladies and tends to find rooms where women sleep alone, pacing around the suite or sitting on their bed. The weight of his physical body can be felt and the indentation on the bed seen. He's mainly polite, though sometimes terrorizes Catholics for sport. In one account, an old couple were feeling guilty for drinking wine on Good Friday, when suddenly laughter could be heard all around the room and drops of blood started appearing on their white table cloth. Oh what fun...Not. ;)

So yes, this is Las Vegas. And yes, that is a dog in the back of a pickup truck, a common sight all over the southwest. (I distinctly heard the collective horrified gasp of all of my northern veterinary friends, just now.) And in fact, I'm going to take this opportunity to step upon my soapbox. PUT YOUR DOGS IN PROTECTIVE CRATES IF THEY'RE TRAVELING IN PICKUPS, PEOPLE! ... (A particular pet peeve of mine... If you only could see my memories of the total medical disasters which were once perfectly healthy dogs in the back of pickup trucks, you'd understand.)

The Stern and Nahm Building, built in 1879. It was originally a saloon, then became a dry goods building twenty years later. I love this building. When you're standing right in front of it, it really is beautiful.

I just can't help but think of Las Vegas, New Mexico as a diamond buried in the wreckage of poverty. With a few million (okay, maybe several million) dollars passed her way, I see this place as having serious potential as a travel destination. There's so much history and spirit here. A few coats of colorful paint, a few broken windows repaired, a few new stores allowed to open and thrive, and you've got a real treasure trove of experiences possible. What will it take to polish New Mexico? Certainly more than my naivete, but what?

I have a fantasy that every historic plaza in New Mexico becomes as healthy as the plaza in Santa Fe. I'm not saying I want every plaza in New Mexico to fill with Gucci stores, I just want them to be healthy. Not filled with the broken, lacerated memories of what once was, the magic so strong it can be felt leaking through the crumbling brick. I want the beauty restored so that everybody can feel it. I want places like Las Vegas to be known for this energy. Not that of crime, poverty and dilapidation. I'm thinking strongly about this. How to polish New Mexico. Just thinking...

Can you find her?

A couple of weeks ago, in the days preceding Benito's death, I posted this image of the New Mexico prairie within my daily blog entry. One of my best friends immediately emailed me, identifying the spirit of my grandma Hulda within the tall grasses. At that time I was seriously struggling with some dark energy, the energy of impending death, which I told my friend after she sent me the email. Her identification of my grandma within this shot gave me much relief. At the time I was trying to prepare for the loss of some physical life (though I didn't know whose), and trying to fill myself with the understanding that death is only an illusion. I do live with the belief that our energy lives on, despite any physical deterioration or destruction, but grappling with the concept of physical loss is very difficult, regardless of a person's understanding. Then Ann pointed out Hulda clearly hanging out within this shot, and we laughed about it, that laughter breaking through the darker energy hovering around. Today, it just reminds me that I have so much to be thankful for. My Grammy hanging around when I most need her, despite the fact that she "died" over twenty years ago. That I have close friends who aren't afraid to point out spirits in my photos. And that our senses of humor are loose enough to laugh about it. Can you find her in the photo? Some people can pick her out immediately, with nothing for effort. Others can't find her even if I tell them exactly the spot to look. Frankly, I never would have found her had Ann not spotted her first. She's got magic for eyes.