By Hilda Joy
​Republished
 
October 20, 2010   —   “What did you bake in the horno the day it was blessed?” asked several friends who could not make it to the first-firing fiesta.  Well. . . nothing that day as the fire must burn for several hours.
 
The first horno baking day took place a dozen days after the horno was blessed and fired.  Early in the morning, I was able to get the horno fire going with just one match.  Friends started trickling in.
 
Dexter noticed that the horno had developed a long narrow crack and quickly repaired it with clay left over from the building process.  I decided then to keep a bucket of clay on hand to mud inevitable future cracks.
 
Back indoors, my kitchen was busy with vast amounts of bizcochito dough being formed.  Soon a bake-off ensued between friends Analinda and Dexter, considered by many to be Abiquiu’s premier bizcochito baker, whose generously sized recipe yields more than 18 dozen cookies!  Linda’s more modestly sized recipe produced great-tasting results as did Dexter’s. Though the ingredients of the two recipes varied, both resulted in the unmistakable bizcochito texture and taste so beloved here in northern New Mexico.  Later, unable to decide which was “better,” we declared the bake-off a draw.
 
Instead of using wool to gauge the horno’s heat, we stuck a 21st-century oven thermometer into the middle of the horno and discovered that the heat had reached more than 600 degrees F., which informed us that the horno only needs two hours of firing time, thus saving on fuel provided by precious and sweet-smelling cedar.  After letting the fire cool down a bit, we put in the cookies and sealed the horno opening and smoke hole with the heavy door and plug fashioned by friend Bonifacio.
 
Analinda made three loaves of bread following a las Golondrinas recipe she had learned while serving as a docent there with husband Napoleon.
​
I was so busy running around that I forgot to punch down my bread dough, so the second rising was shorter than it should have been and the bread suffered a bit.  Friend Dawn made a delicious non-yeasted cornbread with green chile.  While two chickens were roasting indoors, life-long friend and great cook Jean, visiting from Illinois, steamed broccoli and made mashed potatoes and gravy for our early-afternoon repast.
 
When the six loaves of bread came out of the horno, they were placed on a large wooden board in the center of the dining-room table.  After the morning’s work, we were ready for food, especially for the horno bread, which we slathered with lots of buter—so totally unnecessary but so unbelievably delicious.  Before the meal ended, we decided that the next firing would find us making pizza, which we surmised would develop a great crust in a 600-degree F. horno.
 
Many do-it-yourself pizzas have been subsequently baked in this “most beautiful horno in northern New Mexico” as many people have described it.  Bakers included students on a field trip who were taught about horno building by Dexter while their foil-covered inside-out apples were roasting.  They enjoyed this dessert first while assembling their pizzas.

By Sara Wright

​“What you make from a tree should be just as miraculous as what you cut down”.
Richard Powers
 
November is the month of endings and beginnings - I am keenly aware of all trees as they prepare for winter sleep, and this is the season during which I begin to celebrate evergreens. Most deciduous trees are a tangle of sleepy gray branches, but the conifers are still breathing life. Herein lies the Deep Forest Green Religion of Hope. Many trees, both thin barked deciduous trees and conifers are still photosynthesizing. 
 
I love gazing into the woods beyond my brook lush with balsam, fir and hemlock knowing that the animals and birds that are left will soon be nestled in thick undercover finding nourishment and protection from winter winds and snow.
 
In Indigenous traditions throughout the world when the Winter Dances begin the evergreen bough is central to Ceremony… I follow this tradition by tipping boughs for a wreath that will cleanse the air in my house even as it scents the room with sweet fir and balsam.
 
 Beginning each November, I not only honor every evergreen left on this planet, but I mourn the senseless slaughter of so many trees for anthropogenic consumption. Buy and decorate the tree and then throw it out the back door a week later - a recent barbaric ‘ tradition’ if there ever was one. Why is it that we have to murder a tree to celebrate the season of ‘love’? Why not er on the side of life?
 
We could have our children plant a tree for Christmas - light and decorate the boughs, and celebrate the wonder of what a tree can do - eat light, create breathable air, - purify the waters, I could on here - a LIVING tree is a miracle – it’s worth repeating: Why not celebrate Life - not Death with your children?
 
Recently, I posted this quote and query on FB. I am not much of a fan of social media, but I do participate with photographs when I feel the need to share natural beauty, when I need to challenge perspectives, or in this case to highlight destructive traditions that harm our trees. Forests are fundamental to the health of the Earth.
 
I wonder how many people realize that this recent European tradition  (1600’s) along with the invention of ‘Santa Claws’ has its origins in the ancient Indigenous past when evergreens were seen as holy beings central to Winter Ceremonies?
 
Indigenous peoples throughout the world still honor the evergreen – a symbol of the Tree of Life – by asking permission from the trees and then gathering boughs for the dances that go on all winter.
 
When living in New Mexico I was privileged to attend many Pueblo ceremonies that allowed me to celebrate the life of trees in a way that was so familiar and meaningful to me…
 
Here at home, each November I ask permission, gather boughs, then create my wreaths to celebrate the season with a thankful heart. One that is predicated on living trees…
 
I can’t fathom how we strayed from a  practice of gathering tree boughs to celebrate ‘everlasting life’ to one in which we KILL trees, drag them in our houses for a week or so and then throw them in the garbage. Perhaps we have not realized that destructive traditions can be broken? Maybe we can’t fathom that a tree is a living being? Or perhaps we just don’t care.
 
Traditions are created by humans and are not cast in stone. Why not return to the Original Story of celebrating life with living trees at christmastide/winter solstice or any of the other seasonal celebrations?
 
I live in a log house, so I am always aware that trees continue to create a shelter for me, my animals, my bird, my plants. I have wooden shades and sit on beautiful wooden furniture that once belonged to my grandmother, listen to an exquisitely crafted wooden grandmother’s clock that chimes every 15 minutes. I cut my vegetables on a wooden cutting board, use paper towels, toilet paper, newspapers and logs to light my fires… I could go on and on here. I am never out of touch with the gifts that trees have given me, trees who ask for nothing in return except my gratitude.
 
I have also spent the best part of 40 years planting both conifers and deciduous trees on this patch of land that I call home. I have felt the deep satisfaction of watching fruit trees produce berries and other fruits by the hundreds if not thousands, peered at the oak who produced acorns for the first time this year, marveled at the many young oaks the jays and squirrels have planted. I watch recently planted young cedars, once decimated by the deer, thrive under winter caps made of chicken wire. Just two years ago I planted two balsam seedlings to provide better winter cover for my winter birds near the house.
 
I am getting old now and will not live long enough see many of these new seedlings grow into adulthood, but I continue to plant more trees just the same, knowing that I am participating in the Great Round of Life. And this is all that matters. Someday my ashes will find home under a forested tree next to flowing waters.
 
In my mind I imagine children gathering with their parents to prepare the earth to receive evergreen trees during this month. Then in December I watch the children decorate and festoon these Living Beings with Light. Loving parents and grandparents use this opportunity to teach the children about the complex lives of trees and their critical roles in our lives, while modeling the importance of cultivating gratitude for their existence.
 
Isn’t this a scenario worth pondering?
 
Postscript:
From an economic perspective it is just as practical to sell living trees as those that will soon end up dead.   

Rosalía Triana was born on Friday the 13th, in December, 1946 in Parma, Ohio. She left the Midwest in the ‘70s heading anywhere else with her friend, Julia, in a VW bus named Shirley.
 
She eventually landed in Cerrillos, New Mexico. It was here, with a like-minded group of people where she built a pit house. She treasured this time on what is known as, “The Land.” During these days, she taught theater at Santa Fe Alternative School, where she met her son, Martin. 
 
The early ‘80s called her to New York City. It was the height of the punk rock/new wave/experimental theater movement. She was involved with the radical theater group, “La Mama.” It was also in New York that she honed her skill as a master tarot reader and past life regressionist. She appeared in several notable films such as Cotton Club, Moonstruck, and the cult classic, Convoy. She grew tired of the pace, coldness and claustrophobia of the city and returned to her beloved Northern New Mexico in the early ‘90s.
 
Upon her return, she decided to pursue her master’s degree in Chicano/Chicana theater. At the time she was living in El Valle, near Peñasco, and she commuted to UNM in Albuquerque three times a week. She succeeded; she was like that.
 
Shortly after, she became Theater Director at Northern New Mexico Community College between 2001 and 2013. It was here that she realized she was finally “home.“ Rosalía brought the theater up to modern standards and helped to create a community of incomparable artists: musicians, theater people, painters, photographers, sculptors—offering a safe place for people to express themselves to the fullest.
 
Rosalía had a long history of creating and supporting performing arts in New Mexico. If you were involved in any of these organizations, you know the dedication she had: 
 
Moving Arts Espanola, LiveArts Santa Fe (board member), Mel Patch Artspace, TAC Club, Teatro Paraguas, SAG, Española Main Street Theater (co-founder), Northern New Mexico Community College, and New Mexico Filmmakers Intensive where her screenplay, “Epi’s Dilemma” was one of the few chosen to be produced. You can watch it on YouTube.  
 
Rosalía recognized the transitional power of her craft and found the celebration of community, transformation and healing in every project. She encouraged people to take the first step in understanding their story. If you knew her, you have a Rosalía story of your own.
 
Rosalía is survived by her son, Martin Barela (Bernice), and grandson, Travis Barela; siblings Mary Traina, Elizabeth Leary, Terry Safranek (Kenneth), Patty Traina, Michael Traina (Deborah), and Steve Traina; and longtime co-conspirator, Robert Tomlinson, as well as several nieces, nephews, and five million members of her extended family she created wherever she went.
 
The family would like to extend thanks to Marta Uribe, Carolina Jaramillo-Salazar at Scott’s House, and a special thanks to Melissa J White.
 
A Celebration of Life Event will be held Saturday, January 13, 2024, from 4 to 6 pm at Moving Arts Española. The public is invited. Please RSVP to info@movingartsespanola.org.
 
A party in Rosalía’s honor will happen in the spring.
 
The family requested that in lieu of flowers, you may make a donation in Rosalía’s name to Scott’s House Community Hospice and Respite, or Moving Arts Española, or any other organization that you think is doing work to better the human condition. 
 
 
“Dime con quién andas, y te diré quién eres.”
“Tell me who you walk with and I will tell you who you are.”
--Spanish proverb

By Jessica Rath

An article in the New York Times several months ago caught my attention: it talked about extended drought in Spain and a return to almost-forgotten farming methods to mitigate it. Yes, Spanish farmers rediscovered their acequias, the wide network of irrigation canals which had been introduced by the Moors; Muslims who crossed the Straights of Gibraltar from North Africa in the 8th century and  settled in the Iberian Peninsula. The name acequia actually derives from the Arabic word al-sāqiya, meaning one that gives water = irrigation ditch.

​Having lived in New Mexico for over 20 years, acequias were a familiar sight, of course. I saw them at work in Abiquiú, and in Coyote after I moved there, but the article made me realize that I didn’t really know much about the system, how it works, who manages it, and why it could be useful in a drought. I decided to do some research and asked Tim Seaman, Abiquiú resident and Vice-President of the Rio de Chama Acequia Association, for an interview.
 
Tim grew up in the Eastern part of the United States and moved to Albuquerque in 1972 in order to attend the University of New Mexico Anthropology Department. He received his Master's Degree and worked as an archaeologist for the Museum of New Mexico, and as a systems analyst for the State’s archaeological database. When he retired, he chose to settle in Abiquiú which was the site of his first archaeological project. He and his wife found a piece of property right on the river which had to be irrigated. That was his introduction to the culture. 

​Soon he became a commissioner for the ditch and took on the treasurer’s job. He also does a lot of planning for construction projects on this ditch.
 
“Our ditch is a little bit different than a lot of them”, Tim told me. “Our diversion is located on US Forest Service lands, on the Lovato Land Grant, and the Forest Service got control of this property in the 1950s. Our ditch was established in 1735 which means that we predated the Forest Service for a long time. We had fights with them over easements, construction and environmental issues, because they're part of the federal government and they can do that. So that was my introduction to the nuts and bolts of acequias, an orchard with about 100 apple and pear trees. I grow mostly heritage varieties that you can't buy in the store anymore. I have a hobby of making hard cider: I drink as much as I can, and give away the rest!”  I know this drink from France where it’s called cidre. It is absolutely delicious. 

​But wait a minute – Tim’s ditch dates back to 1735?  How can he know that – are there any records, I asked him?
 
“Yes, there are records”, Tim replied. “When the Americans came to New Mexico, they changed things so that water is a commodity and that in terms of management the date has priority. So those who have it first have the highest priority. In our system on the Rio Chama, the highest priority goes to Ohkay Owingeh, the Pueblo near Espanola. It used to be called San Juan. It was Juan de Oñate who started the acequia down there in 1598, although it existed before him.”
 
This was new to me; I had always assumed that acequias arrived in the Southwest with the Spanish.
 
That’s a misconception, Tim corrects. “The Native Americans certainly knew all about irrigation. There were three acequias here that the Spanish developed and they have a priority date of 1600. Although the Native Americans have been here since time immemorial, but that's the priority.”

​But the method of the social organization, the management that operates the acequias – that comes from Europe and the Moors, Tim continued. And again I learned something new: this isn’t only about irrigation, about supplying enough water for crops or animal husbandry. The system, or network, of acequias requires cooperation and coordination between communities and individuals. It requires diplomacy and compromise. People have to work with one another and get along. What a great learning tool for a society which tends toward being self-centered.
 
Tim explained: “If you want to see acequia canals, water irrigation canals that are contemporary with what was going on up here, go down to southern Arizona. The Hohokam [one of the four major cultures of the American Southwest] had canals that were as wide as the current canals that come from the Colorado River. They were highly developed. So, this already existed here, but we call them acequias because of the Spanish colonization of virtually everywhere in the New World.”

“The State represented us through some other programs, and we all came up with a solution that was unique in the history of settlements in the last 50 years in New Mexico and it’s all based on water sharing. That was a great accomplishment. We had help from the statewide organization of the New Mexico Acequia Association.”
​
Every November a Congreso is held for all the acequias in the state. At the most recent one there were over 500 people. If you’re at all interested in acequias and how they’re managed, Tim highly recommends that you attend.
 
“Every region has an acequia association and they all have different sizes, from major ones like the Rio Grande, to little tributaries. So the regions tie them together, and each region sends a number of delegates to the Congreso. We vote on things, for example we voted on a couple of resolutions this year that were really important. It had to do with the state government and federal government and how they manage water, and water rights, especially with the state engineer. We celebrated the 10th anniversary of an act that was pushed through the legislature in 2003. It provided for acequias to have a say in water transfers. Prior to 2003, the state engineer made the decision. And it was based upon the concept that water flows towards money, sometimes uphill! So finally, after 10 years, we control our own destiny now. And that's because of the interface between our congressional delegates and our state representatives, it's a very valuable byproduct. “

The Rio Chama Acequia Association was incorporated in 1993, to deal with Native American water claims. They went to court and there was some litigation started, but it stalled for almost 20 years. But recently the RCAA was able to get money from the state, and we were able to hire lawyers as well as some historic researchers to refine the priority dates. The state assigned dates in the 1800s, but the historians provided evidence to the courts that the acequias were established between 1600 and 1735.
 
“I was voted in as vice president of the Rio Chama Acequia Association, and eventually had to take on the presidency”, Tim continued. “Our organization tried to tie together all of the 19 or 20 acequias in this stretch of the river, and that's like herding cats! Everybody is very independent, you know, and they're very aware of the differences in their priority date. With the water shortages that we're experiencing now, those guys down there with the senior ditches were able to just say, well, everybody else has to shut off upstream, so that we get ours. That’s because of priority management. We negotiated for about five to ten years with the Pueblo, and we suggested the use of a water sharing technique that is native to acequias and comes from the Old World. It’s the concept of the separation of the waters. And just recently, last year, we came to an agreement with the Pueblo so that everybody got something out of it. The federal government has a hand in it because they're the authority for the Native Americans, because they have a government-to-government relationship.”
 
I had just read an article about big corporations usurping the water rights in some states, Montana and Nevada for example, so that there was nothing left for the small farmers. Is anything like that going on in New Mexico, I asked Tim.
 
 “No, it's very different because of the culture here”, he reassured me.  “We have had these systems for so long that in spite of all of the companies that are coming in, that want to build homes in Santa Fe and Albuquerque, they just do it without considering where the water comes from. But they don’t get away with it because of our associations and because of the long-established system of water-rights”.
 
There was something else I was curious about:  what are the duties of a Mayordomo? What is the Mayordomo responsible for?
 
“Traditionally, the mayordomo is elected”, Tim explained. “But he doesn't have to be. There's a lot of variation on our ditch for example, because of the difficulty working with the federal government.  About three miles of the ditch are on US Forest Service land, and that's the biggest maintenance issue we have. It has influenced the way our ditches run. There's not a common “clean the ditch" effort on our ditch; instead, the Commission hires people to clean it in the spring. And we haven't had to hire someone from outside. In fact, our bylaws say that it's supposed to be someone from the ditch, who is the Mayordomo.  Our president, our chair also serves as our Mayordomo. Nobody gets paid for anything here. Well, the Mayordomo can get paid, but the commissioners cannot. The way we do it here is that individuals, of course, take care of their own sections of the ditch. Then the commission takes care of all the infrastructure leading from the diversion all the way down to the first property. So we've been busy putting that part of our ditch into a pipeline – it's all in the public domain up there, and we don't want people walking around our land up there and getting in the ditch.”
 
I had witnessed in Coyote that the people were almost required to clean up and to maintain their part of the ditch.

“Sure, they are. Once it gets down into the private land here in everybody's holdings, that kind of takes care of itself!  Unless you're the last person on the ditch, people downstream of you are going to complain if your head gate isn't working or if it's leaking water.”

“So that's one of the things that holds the community together. On the acequia level, you have a responsibility to your neighbors. And when we get hit with a water shortage, the state will reduce our diversion level. When there's not enough water, native water, in our river, it gets cut down to sometimes 50%. We'll be on a rotation schedule of maybe two days, three days a week, and so everybody shares in that pain. And that makes efficiency really important. So everybody works to make the thing work.”
 
This is something I didn’t know and never thought about: the acequias provide  a fantastic community-building concept.
 
“Yes! Even if you don't have the traditional annual cleaning of the ditch where everybody shows up or has to send somebody or comes with a shovel – even without that, there's still the fact that what you do affects the people below you. And the people above you, affect you. So everyone has to know each other and work together.”
 
To work together and to be aware of those next to you – I’m so impressed to learn that. You can’t take everything for yourself, but you have to leave something for the one downstream. That's such a great concept.
 
Tim agrees. “You know, it's a real lesson for people moving in. Especially people who have money, they think they have this water right, and they try “if you don't supply me with this amount of water…” And they try that for a while, but then they learn that it doesn't get them anywhere.”
 
I knew about acequias making farming in arid, dry regions possible. But I had no idea about the social aspect, the fact that the way acequias work requires that people work together, that they overcome their differences and find a common ground. It is such a valuable lesson nowadays, and I thank Tim Seaman for offering a deeper perspective and a new insight.

When I moved to Abiquiú from Berkeley/California in 2000, I happily discovered many hiking trails almost right next door. Plaza Blanca was almost in my backyard, and Ghost Ranch was just ten minutes away. Once there one could climb up to Chimney Rock, explore the Box Canyon, and make it all the way to Kitchen Mesa – stunning hikes. The rocks one could find along the way were fascinating too, although I had no idea what they were; they looked like quartz crystals and mica and obsidian, but what were they really? 

​I bought a book for New Mexico rockhounds and explored some of their recommended locations. Just past the Abiquiú Dam along Highway 96 towards Youngsville and Gallina one could find lots of agate, I learned. True enough; but when I moved to Coyote I found agates just about everywhere along the dirt roads and in the forests: near the Pedernal Mountain, around Cañones, along the Rio Puerco. Why not around Abiquiú? It took a long time before I got the answer to this question, simply because it hadn’t occurred to me to ask.
 
Research about the agate around Coyote revealed a supervolcano known as Valles Caldera that erupted 1.25 million years ago in the Jemez Mountains, an area that is now known as the Valles Caldera National Preserve. I often went hiking near Valle Grande (the most famous section of Valles Caldera), but that’s really far away from Coyote — how did these agates end up here? 

Strictly speaking, “supervolcano” isn’t a scientific term. Geologists and volcanologists refer to a “Volcanic Explosivity Index” (VEI) of 8 and 7 when they describe super-eruptions. An increase of 1 indicates a 10 times more powerful eruption. VEI-8 are colossal events with a volume of 1,000 km3 (240 cubic miles) of erupted pyroclastic material (for example, ashfall, pyroclastic flows, and other ejecta). An example of a VEI-8 event is the eruption at Yellowstone (the Yellowstone Caldera) some 2.1 million years ago which had a volume of 2,450 cubic kilometers.  VEI-7 volcanic events eject at least 100 km3 Dense Rock Equivalent (DRE). Valles Caldera belongs to the VEI-7 class of supermassive events (accounting for the countless agates in and around Coyote) and is situated within the Jemez Volcanic Field. The last eruption and collapse of the Valles Caldera occurred 1.25 million years ago, piling up 150 cubic miles of rock and blasting ash as far away as Iowa. Although huge in volume, the caldera-forming eruption in the Jemez Mountains was less than half the size of that which occurred at the Yellowstone Caldera system some 631,000 years ago.
 
The name “caldera” comes from the Spanish word for “kettle”, “cooking pot”, or “cauldron”. Molten rock or magma begins to collect near the roof of a magma chamber bulging under older volcanic rocks. After an eruption begins and enough magma is ejaculated, the layer of rocks overlying the magma begins to collapse into the now emptied chamber because of the weight of the volcanic deposits. A roughly circular fracture develops around the edge of the chamber. In the case of Valles Caldera, the surrounding area continues to be shaped by ongoing volcanic activity, and an active geothermal system with hot springs and “fumaroles” (smoke plumes) exists even today.

​Even if it wasn’t quite “super”, it felt exciting to know that such an amazing (and unique, I thought) event had happened not very far from where I lived. Because I’m so ignorant as far as geology is concerned, I couldn’t really imagine what such an eruption would look like. But my interview in September with geologist and volcanologist Kirt Kempter reawakened my interest. He had explained WHY there were no agates to be found near Abiquiú, and had I lived in Coyote 1.25 million years ago when the Valles Caldera erupted, I wouldn’t have survived! Abiquiú was protected from the pyroclastic flow by mountains such as the Chicoma  Peak and  the Polvadera Peak, and a high plateau called the La Grulla Plateau. But more to the north and the northwest it could flow unhindered as far as at least 12 miles.  AND: it can move as fast as 100 to 200 miles per hour. Almost impossible to imagine! Geological time usually is measured in really long time intervals, also hard to imagine – 1.25 million years ago? Can you picture this? – and yet, there are events that last maybe days only but change the landscape forever.

There’s a difference between lava and pyroclastic flow: lava  is the general term for magma (molten rock) that has been erupted onto the surface of the Earth and maintains its integrity as a fluid or viscous mass, rather than exploding into fragments. It usually flows slow enough to give people and animals near a volcanic eruption some time to escape. Pyroclastic flow, on the other hand, is more like a cloud: a mixture of hot gases,  rock fragments, and ashes which moves at extremely high speeds. It wipes out anything living in its path and burns all organic matter.
​
When I asked Kirt where I could find more information on the Valles Caldera, he kindly sent me a link to his six-part YouTube series: https://youtu.be/2gCm7et-N0s?si=GV1Ihq5NejM3RInD
I highly recommend you watch this; it helps to get a better overall picture and has lots of fascinating facts. I will mention just a few more:
 
Did you know that the area of the Jemez Mountains consists entirely of volcanic rocks, created by hundreds if not thousands of volcanic  eruptions over the span of 14 to 15 million years?
 
350,000 years BEFORE the Valles Caldera eruption, a similar event happened: the Toledo Caldera (1.6 million years ago), in the same location, with the same magnitude. In his video Kirt shows us the different colorations in the landscape: the pyroclastic flow of the more recent Valles Caldera eruption has an orange-brown color. Below this one can see a light-beige volcanic rock layer without stratification, which is the remnant of the catastrophic pyroclastic flow of the Toledo Caldera. And below that is a thick layer of pumice and small particles, deposited by a single, extremely powerful vent which shot 20 kilometers or higher into the stratosphere – the beginning of the eruption of the Toledo Caldera. It’s amazing that scientists were able to figure out where these different streaks of colored rocks came from. 

One has to ask: Will the area of the Valles Caldera erupt again? While most of the media hype surrounding supervolcanoes focuses on Yellowstone where a VEI-8 event happened some 640,000 years ago which means that the next one could take place any moment or at least within the next 40,000 years, the Discovery Channel called Valles Caldera “a sleeping monster in the heart of New Mexico” but added in answer to the above question: No one knows. Duh.