During my recent trip across America, I was blessed with perfect weather. Leaving in mid-May, I hoped to avoid the insufferable heat that is now baking the South and Midwest. Weather being what it is, I knew there were no guarantees; heat can oppress early as easily as it can mid-summer. It seems there is no perfect window to avoid major weather events. Driving through Little Rock, Arkansas I recognized evidence of a catastrophic tornado that had hurtled through the area less than two months earlier. As if to highlight the threat, a FEMA booth was set up outside a hardware store in the blue tarp neighborhood.

I managed to drive 9,500 miles—more than a normal year’s worth for me—and pass through 25 states, all with temperate temperatures. I encountered some rain, but miraculously, those days happened to be days of mostly driving from point A to point B. I spent another rainy day in North Carolina meeting blogging friend Keith Wilson and his wife who graciously shared the comfort of their home with me. On the way home I survived a tornado warning from the convenient, dry basement of the tornado-experienced friend whose home I was visiting on that particular evening. What a story I’d have had I been camping that night.

Navigating the engineering marvel that begins above Ouray Valley in Colorado, in mid-May the San Juan Skyway was clear, although just off the pavement snow was still deep and runneled from melt-freeze cycles. I considered the late 18^th century and early 19^th century miners and their women who, obviously from the remaining relics that dot the landscape, lived here year-round. How in the hell did they withstand the winter months? How did they get from homestead or miner’s camp to town, to the doctor, to supplies in freakin’ February? What hardy souls they were.

I loved that twisty-turny road, often referred to as the Million Dollar Highway. The entire way up and down various summits not a single jersey rail interfered with the view and adrenaline rush of journeying past steep drop offs on a ridiculously narrow road with essentially no pavement markings and constant reminders of how mother nature is trying to take back her terrain by undermining the road surface with runoff. 

Some 53 years ago my KU Midwestern Music Camp roommate spoke of her hometown, Raton, NM and the surrounding landscape with love in her heart; I’ve always wanted to explore area. As I ascended to the pass, rain was sheeting from the sky. It felt like the road might metamorphose into a river and wash me to the ocean. I saw nothing but water as I white-knuckled over Raton Pass, not even the pavement markings. This is an anomaly. Like much of the southwest, the area has been suffering a long-term drought so rain was locally welcome, but I was less than appreciative.

Then I descended into Raton, the town. Oh my. What a disappointment. Driving into and through town, the “downtown core” was depressing. I’ve never seen so many vacant buildings, both residential and commercial.

With all that rain, the Raton Museum beckoned. I had an hour and a half private tour led by collections steward, Roger Sanchez. He enthusiastically walked me through an amazing collection of precious relics that illustrate the region’s history.

Like so many other towns, Raton sprang up as a railroad town. Prior to the railroad the Spanish army, representing the first European invasion, struggled up the pass (long before it had been blasted into submission by road engineers). The exhausted army camped at the top of the pass. Morning revealed that mice had invaded and absconded with their supplies. It therefore became known as “Raton Pass,” from the Spanish word for mouse.

On the heels of the railroad, coal was the driving economic force in Raton. Multiple coal villages sprang up like pox marks in the area. When a particular mine suffered a fire or explosion, the mining company would simply shut the attendant village down and move the structures to the next, more lucrative site, which was usually downtown Raton. Many of the remaining elderly buildings were built in towns that have been wiped off the map.

From about 1970 – 1990 Raton boomed. Then politics upended coal mining. Coal companies pulled out and everything else crashed. There is still some coal production in the area, but not nearly enough to sustain an economy.  No wonder these poor souls are Trump afficionados. Our government has failed them for 30 years.

For a small, struggling town, the Raton Museum was really fine. After my official tour ended, I spent more time gazing at an extensive doll collection and the many photographs and WPA art scattered throughout.