The beauty of the road between Los Alamos and Santa Fe, completely invisible to me that morning, was and is beyond my ability to describe. The mountains have neither vegetation nor snow, two accoutrements which I consider to only detract from the charm of layered, infinite rock. A desert mountain can't be described in the context of mountains elsewhere, and these mountains dwarfed any description I might make in the context of the mountains further south.
So we drove, down through a majesty that defied description, then down through a darkness which defied description, then the long stretch of relatively boring desert scenery between Albuquerque and Hatch. And we approached Hatch, alleged chile capitol of the world (though I'm quite certain there's a town in Mexico, somewhere, making the same claim), almost precisely at first harvest. And it was hard not to weep at the simplicity of the hardy scrub, the vast expanses of gleaming sand, the mountains always visible to the east. And it was even harder not to sing John Prine, to the dismay of the others in the van.
We gassed up in Hatch, driving half a mile to the gas station past the chile vendors, past the shops, past the relaxed, friendly locals. We stared at the woman photographing the convenience store. We waved at the Mexicanos in their cowboy hats. They stared at us. We drove through Las Cruces, the smugly simple university town. We drove past Anthony, New Mexico, into Anthony, Texas. We returned to the Temple as dusk was gathering. We dropped off Marvin and Herbie and exchanged hugs.
"This was the best birthday I ever had," said Twain, as we drove toward my apartment.
"It was?" I asked. Different strokes for different folks, I guess. "After last night?"
"Last night wasn't my birthday. Until midnight, and by then we had eaten."
"That's true. You enjoyed today that much?"
"Oh, yes. Thank you so much for coming."
"Well, happy birthday."
"Oh, but thank you so much. I had a really good time," he said, perhaps contemplating the possibility that I'd write this article.
"I'm glad," I said. We drove for a few minutes in silence.
"I think I'm going to make Herbie a soft-shelled crustacean," he said.
