Cycling Trips
-
U.S. East Coast
- Maine
to PA
- The Edge of N.J.
-
Fahrradtour
Canada
-
Skiing Whistler Mtn.
-
Canoeing Wilderness
Lakes
Europe +
-
Exploring Heidelberg
- Bad
Luck In Germany
- Trolley Adventure
in
Milan
- A
Week In Israel
New Zealand
-
Volcanic Vistas
U.S. North
-
Remote Alaskan
Roads
-
Navigating the 1,000
Islands
U.S. West
-
Miserable Hawaii
- California
Redwoods
- Omaha Surprises
-
Summer at Tahoe
Exploring Albuquerque
Incredible mountaintop vistas, Native American pueblos, adobe architecture and ancient rock carvings--all in an extremely bike-friendly city.
ALBUQUERQUE, NM--From high atop the rocky, pine-speckled Sandia Mountains, I watched the city emerge from the mist.
More than a mile below me, Albuquerque's criss-crossing streets and green patches of parkland spread themselves across the Rio Grande valley. The towering downtown office buildings seemed no more than bumps from my distant perch.
The
Rio Grande river, discernible only by the green strip of
vegetation along its edges, threaded its way along the town's
western border before plunging into the vast, semi-arid expanse of
dirt and grass that surrounded the city in all directions.
Sitting, as it did, in the midst of this dry, open landscape, Albuquerque seemed an oasis--a garden bursting with life, while all around it withered.
I had come to this oasis to visit family, but found much more than kin in this city of 385,000. Though most visitors to the area use Albuquerque only for its airport and then speed promptly off to Santa Fe or Taos, my time here convinced me there was plenty in this town to justify a longer stay. Its captivating blend of Native American, Hispanic and Anglo cultures charmed me, while the craggy mountains looming behind it lent a dramatic feel to New Mexico's most populous metropolis.
My plane had barely touched down when I was met by cousins and whisked off to Albuquerque's Old Town, the historic heart of the city. Here, dozens of pueblo-style buildings housing shops and galleries surrounded a grassy plaza, dominated by the high-walled San Felipe Church.
A
sudden afternoon thunderstorm--something I got quite used to by
week's end--filled the streets with rushing water upon our
arrival. Retreating indoors, we browsed displays of Native
American jewelry, rugs, pottery and sand paintings.
Kachina dolls--carved figures of deities--and Cochiti storytellers--ceramic figures with tiny children seated all over them--abounded. Items like these, I was told, were cheaper here than in the more popular shops of Santa Fe.
Shops like Perfumes of the Desert and The Christmas Shop offered some variety, but mostly Old Town was a place to wander, exploring hidden alcoves, studying the Indians and their wares out on the sidewalks, and enmeshing one's self in the antiquity of the place.
It was here, in 1706, that Albuquerque officially came to be. The plaza was then used as a livestock corral and a marketplace. San Felipe Church went up in 1793, its high windows and thick walls meant to secure against Indian attacks.
The
next morning found us driving up the east side of the Sandia
Mountains, winding through forests of spruce and fir, to the
crest. A path followed the cliff's edge--providing spectacular
vistas at every step--and returned through an alpine meadow,
bursting with wildflowers.
From an abandoned stone cabin we watched a lone car on the Sandia Peak Tramway, the world's longest, dangling above the rocky chasm as it slowly headed for the top of the mountain. A restaurant there, the Summit house, lets diners take in the sweeping view along with their meals. We, however, chose to descend before eating, picking the Bella Vista restaurant on route 14, noted for its all-you-can-eat buffets.
Albuquerque
is criss-crossed with bike paths, many following the city's storm
drainage arroyos. One day I borrowed a cycle and pedaled off along
the six-mile Paseo del Nordeste trail. Graffiti, a source of
growing distress among Albuquerqueans, covered the cement arroyos.
In the distance storm clouds hurled lightning to the earth while
the sky above me remained remarkably blue. I tried to picture that
sky as it looked each October when the eight-day Albuquerque
International Balloon Fiesta saturated it with colorful hot air
balloons.
Though that event puts Albuquerque on the map, and Santa Fe is already there for its own reasons, New Mexicans say a shocking number of U.S. citizens have no idea that New Mexico is a state, a frustration borne out by the words "New Mexico, U.S.A." on their license plates. My relatives have even been asked for passports in Idaho. Still, countless travelers have passed through en route to California, many along the infamous route 66, also called Main Street of America.
The Kimo Theater on old route 66.
We took a drive down old 66, eyeing the hotels and cafes that sprang up alongside it in the 1930s. Murals splashed Western scenery on passing walls, while the fanciful KiMo Theater's colorful mix of Pueblo Revival and Art Deco styles begged a brief inspection. We skirted the century-old University of New Mexico, its pueblo-style architecture just as alluring as its frequent concerts, musicals and plays.
Our travels took us across the muddy Rio Grande, much shallower
than I had imagined, to the Petroglyph National Monument. Here,
3,000 years ago, Native Americans carved birds, animals, people
and other figures into the volcanic rock. Ranger Mike 
Medrano
led us on a serpentine course through the boulders, warning us of
rattlesnakes and explaining the designs. Figures of parrots, he
said, creatures not native to the Southwest, gave evidence of
prehistoric trade with Mexico.
The highlight of the week was my visit to Isleta Pueblo, 14 miles south of Albuquerque. The Tiwa-speaking Indians living there traced their roots back to the early 13th century.
In the pueblo's 272-year-old St. Augustine Church, an adobe structure with two bell towers, we were greeted by Rev. Bernard Loughrey, from Ardmore, PA. As Irish music played incongruously over the loudspeakers, he gave us a tour, pointing out artifacts from the church's past and a stained-glass window featuring his visage.
Outside, the hot, dusty streets of the pueblo were deserted. Stacks of freshly made bricks stood beside sand-yellow adobe houses, each of which had its own hump-like outdoor oven, called a horno. The basketball backboards, pickup trucks and discarded beer bottles that dotted the area, however, belied the scene's antiquity.
I fell into conversation with one of the residents, Juan Olguin, a hefty Native American. He invited me into his adobe home, which he said had been in his family for about 400 years.
We sat in his cool, dimly lit den, talking and sipping cold root beer. With evident pride, he showed off his hunting trophies--mounted fish, pheasants and deer--adorning the adobe walls.
That night was German night in Albuquerque, part of the city's series of summer ethnic celebrations. A group of us sat in Civic Plaza, with tall buildings all around us, listening as a German band battled to be heard over the cascading of a nearby fountain.
Lifesize bronze figures depicting the city's three-part ethnic heritage stood silently on a neighboring sidewalk. Children on skates zipped to and fro in the twilight. Native Americans lined up for knockwurst and strudel. And the full moon rose over a cool, pleasant evening in downtown Albuquerque.
If
you like this article,
you'll love my book,
Two
Wheels and a Map.
