"19 Pueblos of New Mexico"

 

Pablo Flores drove his old, rusty red 1978 Ford F-150, a dependable yet worn companion, along the winding NM 518 route from Taos to Penasco. Snow had begun to fall, dusting the earth in a blanket of white and making the already treacherous drive even more perilous. He had just left Taos Hospital, where his elementary school teacher, Mr. Martinez, lay frail and fading. Mr. Martinez had taught Pablo to see the world with curious eyes and an open heart, lessons that had profoundly shaped his life as an artist. The visit left Pablo with a heavy heart, his mind swirling with memories of childhood lessons and the weight of impending loss.

The road snaked through the mountainous landscape with sharp bends and steep inclines. Lost in his thoughts, Pablo hadn’t noticed the gas gauge dipping dangerously close to empty. The urgency of seeing his old teacher had pushed all practical concerns aside, and now, as darkness fell, he realized his mistake. The truck sputtered but kept going, fueled by sheer will and a bit of luck.

As the sky darkened, casting long shadows over the landscape, Pablo spotted a figure by the roadside. Wrapped in layers of tattered blankets, the hitchhiker stood motionless, his face obscured by the dim light. Compassionate by nature, Pablo pulled over and offered the man a ride. The hitchhiker climbed in, bringing with him a potent mix of scents—burnt rubber, wet dog, stale cigarette smoke, and gasoline. He was a gaunt man, with dark cheeks and skin like leather, as if life had dealt him the worst of hands. His presence was intimidating, and Pablo felt a knot of anxiety in his stomach.

The man's name was Isidro. He climbed into the truck without a word, and they drove in silence for a while, the only sound being the hum of the engine and the soft fall of snow. Isidro didn’t look like the type to start a conversation, so Pablo, feeling the tension, decided to speak.

“Those times with Mr. Martinez, right? He taught me to see the world in a different way,” Pablo began, trying to break the silence. He shared memories of growing up in Taos, the stories and lessons from Mr. Martinez. Isidro listened quietly, his expression unreadable in the dim light.

A few miles down the road, Isidro interrupted Pablo. "You can drop me off here. I'm close to my driveway," he said, pointing to the side of the road. Pablo pulled over and stopped the truck. Before stepping out, Isidro handed Pablo a small baggie with a dime of mushrooms. "These will show you the way," he said with a knowing look, and then he disappeared into the night.

Curiosity and desperation mingled in Pablo’s mind. He continued his journey, but soon after, his truck sputtered and died—completely out of gas. Stranded miles from anywhere, Pablo decided to take the mushrooms, hoping they might offer some insight or comfort.

The effects were immediate. The world around him began to shift and warp. The freezing cold seemed to fade, replaced by an intense warmth that radiated from within. Disoriented, he stepped out of his truck, only to lose his shoes in the deepening snow. Barefoot and vulnerable, he started walking, guided by an unseen force.

The night was alive with sounds. Coyotes howled in the distance, their eyes glowing like embers in the darkness. He saw majestic elk, their antlers silhouetted against the moonlit sky, moving with a grace that seemed almost otherworldly. Above him, an owl flew silently, its eyes glowing with a mysterious light. Pablo felt a strange connection to the bird, as if it were guiding him through this surreal landscape.

But amid the natural beauty, there was a palpable sense of unease. Shadows seemed to shift and move just out of sight, and a chill ran down Pablo's spine. He felt as though he were being watched. The stories his grandmother had told him about skinwalkers, malevolent shapeshifters from Navajo culture, came flooding back. "Skinwalkers among the Pueblos are not heard of," he thought, but the thought of encountering one in this isolated, vulnerable state filled him with dread.

As he trudged through the snow, the mushrooms led him deeper into the wilderness. Each step brought new visions, each more vivid and unsettling than the last. The barren winter scenery transformed into lush, vibrant images of the past. He saw the pueblos in their full glory, bustling with life and culture. He felt their struggles and triumphs as if they were his own.

In one vision, Pablo saw Taos Pueblo, known for its multi-storied adobe buildings, a symbol of resilience and community. He felt the strength of the people who had lived there for centuries, enduring harsh winters and external pressures. He could almost hear the ancient songs and see the ceremonies that bound the community together.

Pablo stumbled upon a clearing where an ancient dance was taking place. Figures dressed in traditional attire moved rhythmically around a fire, their shadows dancing on the surrounding cliffs. The air was filled with the sound of drums and flutes, a haunting melody that spoke of both joy and sorrow. He watched in awe, feeling as though he were part of something timeless and sacred.

As he watched the dancers, he saw crosses emerge from the shadows, each crafted from old barn wood, leather, and steel. They stood as sentinels of history and spirituality. Each cross seemed to embody the spirit of a different pueblo, its unique story carved and etched into the weathered wood. The vision was clear and profound: the crosses symbolized the resilience and faith of the pueblos, their ability to withstand time and adversity.

The crosses were not mere religious symbols; they were beacons of the human spirit. Each cross represented the intersection of the physical and the spiritual, the merging of past and present. The materials—barn wood, leather, steel—were chosen not just for their durability but for their symbolic weight. Barn wood represented the roots and heritage of the land; leather symbolized the strength and flexibility of the people; steel stood for resilience and endurance.

But the journey was not easy. The cold returned with a vengeance, biting at his bare feet and numbing his hands. He felt the weight of exhaustion pulling him down, but the visions pushed him forward. The owl remained by his side, a silent guardian in the night. Hours passed in a blur of cold and hallucinations until he stumbled upon an old, abandoned barn. Exhausted and overwhelmed by the mushrooms' effects, he collapsed inside. As he drifted into a restless sleep, the visions began to fade, leaving behind a profound sense of clarity and purpose.

However, his sleep was anything but peaceful. He dreamt of a dark figure with glowing eyes, lurking just beyond the firelight of the ancient dance. The figure shifted shapes, becoming a coyote, then a man, then something in between. It was a skinwalker, and it was watching him.

When Pablo awoke, the sun was high in the sky, and the mushrooms' grip on his mind had loosened. The barn, filled with old, weathered wood and rusted tools, seemed to glow with potential. He realized that the spirits of the land had shown him the way. He had a mission: to honor the 19 pueblos of New Mexico through his art. Returning to his studio, Pablo gathered materials with renewed vigor. He scoured old barns and abandoned homes, collecting distressed barn wood, rusted metal, and other discarded objects. Each piece seemed to whisper its own story, waiting to be woven into a greater narrative.

As he neared the completion of the collection, nature unleashed its final test. A wildfire broke out in the surrounding hills, threatening to engulf his studio. With flames drawing closer, Pablo made the difficult decision to stay and protect his work. Building firebreaks and dousing the area with water, he battled the blaze with unwavering determination. Miraculously, the fire passed, leaving his studio and the collection unharmed.

But as the smoke cleared, Pablo saw the same dark figure from his dreams standing on a distant hill. The skinwalker watched him, its eyes glowing with a malevolent intelligence. Pablo knew his journey was far from over. The skinwalker was a reminder of the darkness that lurked in the world, but also of the strength and resilience that could overcome it.

After two years of relentless effort and countless battles with nature, the "19 Pueblos of New Mexico" collection was complete. Each cross stood as a testament to the enduring spirit of the pueblos and Flores' unyielding resolve. When the collection was unveiled, it resonated deeply with collectors and viewers alike. They saw not just art, but the soul of New Mexico captured in wood and metal.

Flores' work is a daily reminder of the beauty that can emerge from adversity. As one collector poignantly described, “Owning a piece from this collection is like holding a fragment of New Mexico’s soul—a powerful symbol of strength, renewal, and the enduring human spirit.” Through this collection, Flores immortalized the sacred heritage of New Mexico’s pueblos, weaving his journey with theirs, creating a legacy that will inspire and fascinate for generations to come. His art continues to remind us of the resilience required to face nature’s challenges and the transformative power of the human spirit.