stock musicals. She had retired here because she was born and raised in northern New Mexico, and she appeared to have plenty of money, from what I could see. Her beautiful home was by far the largest and most distinctive in the old part of Agua Azuela, and perhaps even among most of the newer homes in the surrounding mountains. She had told me that her house overlooking the rio was once a morada, where the Penitentes held rituals in the old days.
This was, in fact, how I came to meet Regan. Her land abutted BLM acreage, and I had occasion to patrol this area once last fall when I discovered a nearly abandoned old Penitente cemetery, or campo santo , as they are called—which means “field of saints.” The graves were scattered along a flat shelf of open ground about a hundred yards below the canyon rim, just above Regan’s land. The view of this unique landform was blocked from below by boulders and stands of scrub piñon and juniper.
When I first happened onto the cemetery, I recognized Penitente features in the headstones and other markers. And one of the graves had an exceptional marker: a massive, weathered wooden cross, crude and simple, its base piled with great stones. The upright stand of the cross had split; shards had broken away in such a way that it was partly hollowed out just above the base. Above the transverse beam, a relief of glyphs had been carved in the surface of the wood, but these had eroded so much that they were impossible to make out. A stipe—such as that on which the crucified’s feet would either rest or to which they would be nailed—was affixed to the cross; however, it had gone askew and was positioned almost vertically. In the center of this cross, a broken crucifix, the large ceremonial kind—perhaps ten inches in height, ornately cast in metal and with trefoil ends—had been screwed to the cross, the two pieces at angles to emphasize the break between them. On a flat stone in front of the rood, a small bunch of wildflowers, recently placed and barely wilted, marked the shrine.
I took a small notebook from my pocket and made a quick sketch and a few written comments, jotting a note to come back and do a more detailed drawing later. I was studying the shrine, thinking how lucky I was to have found it, when I heard a deep, husky voice calling, “Hey! You there!” I stood up and looked around. Coming up the slope from below was a tall, lean, white-haired woman, obviously quite agile. She was wearing a long oatmeal cotton sweater. Her khaki pants were tucked haphazardly into big, sloppy work boots caked with dried mud, which looked as if they had been hastily pulled on and not tied. The tongues of these monsters flapped against her pant legs when she walked. I waited, and as she came near, I could see her tan, deeply lined face and dark eyes, which were looking at me the way a raven might regard a hawk who had just invaded her nest.
“You’re not supposed to be on this land.”
“I’m with the BLM, ma’am.” I opened my badge holder and showed her my RPA shield. “I’m a resource protection agent.” I pulled my folded quad—the detailed map of the terrain for that quadrant—out of my back pocket and held it up. “I’m pretty sure this old cemetery is on BLM land. We can look for the survey marker, and I’ll show you, if you’d like.”
“Oh.” She began shaking her head up and down as if in agreement. “Yes, I think you’re right, don’t bother. This campo santo used to belong to the village, not to anyone in particular. That was before the BLM came in here. But things have changed. Nobody looks after it now. I own the land below here. I try to keep trespassers off my land, you see. Not too many people know about this place, but if I see anyone up here, I try to run them off. You never know what someone will do.”
“Well, I’m pretty sure you’re not going to be able to keep everyone from coming up here, no matter what you do. There’s a shrine up here,
This was, in fact, how I came to meet Regan. Her land abutted BLM acreage, and I had occasion to patrol this area once last fall when I discovered a nearly abandoned old Penitente cemetery, or campo santo , as they are called—which means “field of saints.” The graves were scattered along a flat shelf of open ground about a hundred yards below the canyon rim, just above Regan’s land. The view of this unique landform was blocked from below by boulders and stands of scrub piñon and juniper.
When I first happened onto the cemetery, I recognized Penitente features in the headstones and other markers. And one of the graves had an exceptional marker: a massive, weathered wooden cross, crude and simple, its base piled with great stones. The upright stand of the cross had split; shards had broken away in such a way that it was partly hollowed out just above the base. Above the transverse beam, a relief of glyphs had been carved in the surface of the wood, but these had eroded so much that they were impossible to make out. A stipe—such as that on which the crucified’s feet would either rest or to which they would be nailed—was affixed to the cross; however, it had gone askew and was positioned almost vertically. In the center of this cross, a broken crucifix, the large ceremonial kind—perhaps ten inches in height, ornately cast in metal and with trefoil ends—had been screwed to the cross, the two pieces at angles to emphasize the break between them. On a flat stone in front of the rood, a small bunch of wildflowers, recently placed and barely wilted, marked the shrine.
I took a small notebook from my pocket and made a quick sketch and a few written comments, jotting a note to come back and do a more detailed drawing later. I was studying the shrine, thinking how lucky I was to have found it, when I heard a deep, husky voice calling, “Hey! You there!” I stood up and looked around. Coming up the slope from below was a tall, lean, white-haired woman, obviously quite agile. She was wearing a long oatmeal cotton sweater. Her khaki pants were tucked haphazardly into big, sloppy work boots caked with dried mud, which looked as if they had been hastily pulled on and not tied. The tongues of these monsters flapped against her pant legs when she walked. I waited, and as she came near, I could see her tan, deeply lined face and dark eyes, which were looking at me the way a raven might regard a hawk who had just invaded her nest.
“You’re not supposed to be on this land.”
“I’m with the BLM, ma’am.” I opened my badge holder and showed her my RPA shield. “I’m a resource protection agent.” I pulled my folded quad—the detailed map of the terrain for that quadrant—out of my back pocket and held it up. “I’m pretty sure this old cemetery is on BLM land. We can look for the survey marker, and I’ll show you, if you’d like.”
“Oh.” She began shaking her head up and down as if in agreement. “Yes, I think you’re right, don’t bother. This campo santo used to belong to the village, not to anyone in particular. That was before the BLM came in here. But things have changed. Nobody looks after it now. I own the land below here. I try to keep trespassers off my land, you see. Not too many people know about this place, but if I see anyone up here, I try to run them off. You never know what someone will do.”
“Well, I’m pretty sure you’re not going to be able to keep everyone from coming up here, no matter what you do. There’s a shrine up here,
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