We had ridden across the west Texan desert and into the desert of southern New Mexico. There it is flat and arid, except for a small mountain range, poking up in the middle of nowhere. It is a mountainous, alpine forest, reminiscent of Colorado. The mountain range is like a drop of ink, splattered at the end of a written line. The writer who draws the line (the Rocky Mountain range extending from Canada, through Colorado, and into New Mexico) lifts the pen, and a drop falls, disconnected from the rest. So is the mountain range of Ruidoso: a splatter of the Rocky Mountains, disconnected from the rest of the range.
We were overjoyed with our humble cabin in the evergreen glades. We pitched our set up of checkers, Uno and coloring books.
Then I fell in love with the little town, a cousin of Aspen or Vail: Ruidoso is a ski town just off of Alta Ski Area. I found all sorts of little shops and restaurants.
But then our hearts were truly captured by a lake, nestled in the middle of the mountains. We got out of the car, cooing, oohing and ahhing. We settled on the edge of the lake and relaxed for hours. It felt like we were playing inside a John Denver song.
“Sunshine on my shoulders. . . “
“. . . makes me feel happy. “
Learning how to. . .
. . . skip stones!
Being off the grid has never felt so good!