Pre-summer temperatures around Santa Fe vacillated between warm days and cool nights along with clear, star-filled skies. Nowhere in the United States were the skies bluer or wider.
The county was surrounded by high mountain ranges, flat mesas, and hills populated by rocky outcroppings—a painter’s paradise, an artisan’s treasure trove. Potters who traveled south down La Bajada Hill on I-25 toward Albuquerque and ventured just off the road could gather clay in various shades of color. Also along Highway 14, which runs parallel to I-25, but they had to look a little harder.
This was true Indian Country, shrouded in mystery. Several early Indian tribes settled in the foothills of the Ortiz Mountains near Cerrillos and Madrid, on the stretch of land encircled by the Galisteo Basin. Popular theory claims that the Anasazi cultures collapsed due to severe drought. Survivors migrated to the Rio Grande Valley and became assimilated into today’s modern pueblos.
There were two primary pueblo ruins in this area, the smaller one, San Marcos and the larger, San Lazaro. San Lazaro Pueblo was about eighteen miles southeast of Santa Fe, sixty acres of rolling hills sprinkled with junipers and piñons. Spiny cholla cactus outcropped the surface of sandy hills.
The historic ruins of the Tano Indian pueblo nestled along the Del Chorro Creek, where the stream trickled along, minding its own business, perfectly capable of becoming a raging deluge during the monsoon season. At various junctures, the stream went underground. High canyon walls lined the perimeter for a short distance and the terrain flattened into gently rolling hills.
Sharing a common boundary with the San Lazaro Indian ruins, the Crawford Ranch lies hidden in the center of a small valley. At the top of the hill next to the entrance, a windmill stands sentry.
Known as the Turquoise Trail, the landscape along Highway 14 remained the same—adobe houses on several-acre plots, neighbors more than an arm’s length from each other. An old feed store converted part of its building to house a popular restaurant, the San Marcos Café. Tourists and locals alike traveled more than ten miles from Santa Fe to eat a roast beef burrito smothered with red chili or a plate of biscuits and gravy. Outside, turkeys, albino peacocks and chickens spread their wings with ease and mingled with the overgrown tabby, who eyed them with great interest, waiting for his chance.
Charlie Cooper lived at the Crawford Ranch, adjoining McCabe’s San Lazaro Indian ruins. Not cut out for ranch life and eager to return to the city, owner Gary Blake had dispensed with requesting references from Charlie, whose down-home country charm convinced Blake he was the one for the job. Charlie survived out there quite nicely. Not only did he receive a monthly check from Blake for caretaking, but his only expenses were food, beer and gasoline, not necessarily in that order. Charlie grew a hefty crop of marijuana, part of which he sold to the local druggies. The larger portion was sold to a contact in Albuquerque.
Every now and then, a pothead snooped around to see what he could steal. The ranch was surrounded by old Indian ruins, and these characters dug around to find something for a quick sale. Problem was, there was only one road in and one road out, and Charlie was always willing to give chase. Hell, he looked forward to it.
Old man Loomis at the general store in Cerrillos had a lot of relics on his shelves he knew came from the Crawford Ranch. He didn’t care where things originated—he always underpaid. The back of the store was filled with items bought from the derelicts who hung around outside, smoking their foul-smelling roll-your-owns and coming inside to take a piss in the employees’ bathroom. Loomis accommodated them. Otherwise they did their number outside in plain sight, which tended to discourage tourists who might be potential customers for his not-only-phony but overpriced goods.
Today, Charlie entered the unfinished basement on the sub-level of the house to begin harvesting his prized marijuana plants. The room had an earthen floor, perfect for a hidden garden. My ticket out of this hell-hole, he mused. Over the last six months he had stashed about $22,000 in hundred dollar bills. This next sale would serve to take him over his goal: fifty grand.
The room was a marijuana forest. The plants had reached their peak and the buds dried nicely. He spent a few hours pulling them all out and hanging them from hooks. The pungent pine-cone odor was unmistakable.
Charlie inspected each plant, almost amber in color. He spent two days trimming buds. Wearing plastic gloves, he cut each plant with care and spread the leaves out in paper grocery bags, which he carried over to the back of the barn and covered with hay. It would take at least a week for these to cure before he could form them into brick-sized portions, shrink-wrap and weigh them.
For the remainder of the week, Charlie dug up every telltale sign of his pot-growing venture, loaded it all up in black garbage bags and hauled them to the County Dump. Satisfied with what he had accomplished, he drove into Cerrillos and used the pay phone in front of the general store to call his contact.