A few wisps of white, solitary patches of isolated clouds hang almost stationary, creeping slowly to the east on their wayward march across the vast pale blue morning sky. Cooler summer air awaits curious travelers as they mill about in anticipation, waiting to be transported back in time, to a historic but forgotten era.
Four long blasts wail from the whistle marking the impending departure. Without further warning a mechanical lurch signals forward movement, confirmation comes in the form of a charcoal column spewing from the stack of the steaming colossus. The wooden carriages, maroon in color stained black with soot jerk forward as the procession departs the Chama station.
A rhythmic whoosh of the pulsating locomotive takes hold, a slow climb and clack
echoes as the beast climbs the incline. Chunks of fist-sized coal piled high above the buckboard, awaiting nourishment for Iron Horse 488, soon to be consumed in its efforts to overcome the steep grade. The jerky sway and pulsing clang of the steel wheels begin to lull the senses, a throbbing cadence of dundun, dundun echoes amongst the pristine landscape.
Scattered along the trail through history sit piles of old timber ties once used, abandoned, and tossed aside. A weathered telegraph pole stands alone, a solitary wooden cross marking a long-ago bridge from east to west. Parallel narrow gage steel ribbons wined along a gravel ballast pathway, marking a forgotten time and route.
The rolling terrain gives way to a march of clear blue-brown water, streaks of white swirling around the obstacles placed in its path. Pastoral green ribbons mark each bank of the peaceful river. Remnants of rusted barbwire and split rail fence mark the boundary of bygone homesteads.
A granite sentinel cliffside hangs proudly above the valley floor, standing guard overlooking the inhabitants that thrive below. Open rage, all facets of colored plumage sprinkled about for good measure. Observed in all directions, scenic vistas overwhelm one’s sight, now witnessing the purple mountain majesty.
Alpine drizzle mists the air as the temperatures cool in elevation gain. An unexpected crack of thunder prompts the memory, a reminder of the severe randomness of nature. Remnants of an old dirt road meander about revealing a once harder time.
Crested, the divide and surrounding ecosystem transform, green summit pastures roll in all directions. White spires of steam replace the once angry black column as slow grades descend downward onto the eastern side of the continent. Small runoff streams wander and intertwine engorging into larger creeks as they race down the mountain side rushing to meet up with their ancestral watershed to the east.
The shine of pale green aspen grove overflows, consuming the mountainside, rolling seamlessly over the adjacent ridge line. Their black spotted trunks stand straight encapsulated by countless spade-shaped offsprings creating a shimmering canopy. Silver-green wedges of perfectly shaped spruces with spiny fingers reaching in all directions stand within the randomly decaying lodgepoles.
Cutting through the lush conifer forest, the scenic overlook revealed the vertical rim and divide of the Toltec Gorge and a happy, but long-ago inhabited valley below. Curving, and circling, the beast edges along the ridgeline boundary, casually weaving between the Colorado and New Mexico state lines. A descending ride nearing the heights of any available trail. The dense forest thins replaced by low rolling hills spotted with high plains shrubs, tufts of juniper, and cedars dot the landscape.
Lower, a sea of sage covers the high plains desert. Its entirety was mixed with splotches of yellow wildflowers, a patchwork of prairie grasses, and tracked dirt seeded in between. Random strands of purple and green stringed foliage are sprouted about. Large, isolated chunks of black porous volcanic rock remain in their resting place from a long-ago flight. Prominently sitting, almost regal, as if they were hand-placed by an ancient artist.
Leisurely descending upon the flats, the slow rhythmic sway drones on, as the ambient warms. The extensive sage valley floor unfolds, displaying a sweeping endless open rage. Blueish-grey shadows outline the distant mountains as sheets of dark grey rainbands trace the far horizon. Reaching the end of the Cumbres line, the iron horse has triumphantly returned to its beginning, a distant time ago and a town named Antonito.
