Gnorga & Pweeo Vs. The Volcano

"But we wanna come too!" they replied, jumping up and down. The snow was up to their waists in some places.

"Okay, but you go back to the van when you get cold," I made them promise. Bubsy was too young to leave the van anyhow, being not quite two years old. The others made it as far as the end of the parking lot before their feet were completely soaked and freezing. Next time, maybe they'd listen and leave those worthless clogs behind.

It had been snowing since we'd passed Trinidad. Out here in Northeast New Mexico, it had been snowing even longer than that. By this time tomorrow, we'd be at Moosie's and Papa's house in Houston for Thanksgiving. There, all of the frozen fingers and frost-nipped toes would be forgotten.

Pweeo ploughed ahead, through the biggest drifts she could find. I followed in her tracks, admiring that youthful, bursting energy. Oh, to be eleven again(HA!! It'd be a cold day in...)... Snowflakes drifted by, whipped into the sky by the frigid after-wind of an Albuquerque Low. Loosed by our feet, each step we plugged sent more snow into the plume streaming from the old volcano's rim. I caught up with her as she puzzled over a particularly deep section.

Now, I was about to play the part of The Wise, Old Mountaineer:

"Stick to the rocks. Just hop from boulder-to-boulder."

"But the sign said we're supposed to stay on the trail, Dad."

"That's for summer conditions, honey. You won't erode anything in all this stuff."

"Oh."

Ahhh. Y'see? Wise, Old Mountaineer.

I wish I could know what she was thinking, what she was feeling, as she looked over the edge of a cornice, across the vast plain, with Sierra Grande in view. It's the largest of these extinct volcanoes.

We arrived at the secondary summit, looking across the crater at higher ground. Wise, Old Mountaineer time.

"There's the summit. There's the van. What should we do? Go to the summit? Go to the van?"

"I don't know," she shrugged. It was an 11-year-old's indecision. Very matter-of-factual. No stress. No pressure. No regrets if she didn't make it up there.

But it mattered to the Wise, Old Mountaineer!

"Let's go for it," I said, and we bounded down to a gap where stunted trees gave us shelter from the wind. The van in the parking lot was out of sight now. We regrouped momentarily in this haven, standing in our own respective post-holes. She had her hands withdrawn inside her coat sleeves, and her nose and ears were a little red.

"Are ya cold, honey?"

"No," she smiled. "I usually carry my hat and gloves in my pockets, but I don't know where they are now."

Smart kid, I thought to myself. She always does stuff like that, always thinking ahead. This time didn't count, though, because this was an impromptu outing. Well, that is, for her. The Wise, Old Mountaineer has had Capulin on his mind for a long time. And these conditions just couldn't have been more interesting for me!

We toiled up the slope to the summit, trading "the point" until we broke out of the trees and came to the plaques and benches that adorn the top. We looked out over the horizon, to the Sangre de Cristo range in the distant Northwest. She had her hood on now. I took several pictures and tried to think of something profound to say.

"Nice view, huh?"
Oh, yeah. Very profound indeed. She'd remember that one all of her life, uh-huh.

Still, the best things can't be said. I was on top of Capulin Mountain, at 8,182 feet above sea level, with my oldest daughter, and she was actually enjoying this. What more could the Wise, Old Mounatineer want?

It was soon time to get back to our van. I was hoping I wouldn't get in trouble for being gone so long. Just to make things complete, we proceeded down the untraveled side of the crater's rim. Losing sight of the van again, we could just make out the visitors' center far below. There was one last little rock feature to keep Dad, ever the Wise, Old Mountaineer, happy on our descent, and I "spotted" Pweeo as she downclimbed the steep, man-made retaining wall. She's pretty good at humoring me.