Taos ahoy
Escaping the gravitational pull of Pagosa Springs took more willpower than expected, but eventually, we did it. Marcel’s nose turned south, New Mexico-bound. Next stop: Taos.
We weren’t in any particular hurry now — the threat of Colorado snow was safely behind us — so when a dirt road over a nearby mountain pass winked at us, we took the bait. A few miles of potholes later, we found a faint two-track splitting off up the hillside and followed it, squeezing Marcel between a few close trees until we popped into a quiet clearing. Perfect for a peaceful overnight — just us, the still air, and the hum of a furnace keeping our brains from freezing after a week-plus of socializing.
Rolling into the greater Taos area, we took one look at the busy streets and decided we weren’t ready for humanity just yet. We shot straight north through Questa, then west into the Río Grande del Norte National Monument — a place that didn’t even exist last time Kerri passed through this area. It was new ground for both of us.
Our timing, however, was impeccable — meaning terrible. The government shutdown was in full swing, and we had figured we wouldn’t be able to stay. But with no gates, no locks, and no rangers around to tell us otherwise, we went exploring. The visitors center was closed tight, but the first campground still had one trailer — the host. We stopped to chat and, to our delight, learned the campgrounds were open. Game on. We did a slow auto-tour through the monument, stopping at overlooks and checking out each campground in turn before settling on a site that clung to the rim of the Rio Grande Gorge, with the river glinting far below. For seven bucks a night, we booked three. Can you blame us?
Each evening we stepped out to watch the sun sink over the gorge, the desert wind cutting through our jackets but not our smiles. Kerri stayed glued to her laptop during the days, pounding through work deadlines while I handled the household duties and tried my best at keeping her fed. Twice we were visited by a small herd of bighorn sheep, who grazed right through camp like we weren’t even there. Having learned my lesson with the foxes, I kept my mouth shut this time. We just watched them — quiet, grateful, and still.
Mostly recharged after our social marathon, we took off on a slow-motion loop around the Enchanted Circle — a 90-mile scenic route that most people knock out in an afternoon. It took us days. We camped in hidden pullouts and forest clearings, took side roads to nowhere, and let the rhythm of the mountains reset us one night at a time.
Eventually, nature time gave way to neon signs and the promise of cocktails. We rolled into Taos and booked a few nights at a quirky Vintage Trailer Hotel. We didn’t need their vintage trailers — Marcel is vintage enough — but they let us dry camp in the open field out back. It turned out to be the perfect base: hot showers, water refills, endless sunshine for the solar panels, and only a few minutes’ drive to town each evening for dinner and drinks. We fell into a routine — working by day, lounging in Taos by night. Three nights slipped past in a blur of color, warmth, and good food.
And the skies… oh, the skies. I’d forgotten how New Mexico does sunsets and sunrises — wide open, endless, electric. There’s something in the desert light here that makes the horizon glow like it’s on fire. No other state does dawn and dusk like this one.
