A Big Finish

The Old Spanish Trail from Purgatory to el Santuario de Chimayó is a wonderful 240-mile (385-km) pilgrimage.  I recommend it for most levels of walking abilities.  Bicycles would work well, too, for this camino.  The route travels along both graded dirt roads and paved roads, and water is available every day.  The challenge for some might be the daily distances, between 20 and 25 miles (31 and 39 kms), which is the historic standard for a day's journey by foot or horse-cart.  Because this is an historic route, well, such it is and can't easily be changed.  The areas in between are generally unpopulated with no shelters available for pilgrims.

Here's the route:

Purgatory, Colorado
Durango
Ignacio (Southern Ute Reservation)
Arboles
Pagosa Junction
Dulce, New Mexico (Jicarilla Apache Reservation)
Chama
Nutrias
Christ of the Desert Benedictine Monastery*
Abiquiu
San Juan/Okay Owingeh Pueblo
Chimayó
       *unmet destination, see saga below

As soon as I can, I'll get the detailed route posted here and on the Santuario's website, and additional information is always available at the Santuario office (505) 351 9961.

This little pilgrimage of mine was an exploratory one to revive an old path that is no longer used by foot or beast.  The old train line that connected Durango with Chama is long gone and although the railroad bed is visible in many places, it crosses private property in some places, so isn't always available as a pilgrim route.  There are modern paved (and quiet) roads along the route from Purgatory to Arboles, and then a well-maintained dirt road to Dulce, where again there is pavement all the way to Abiquiu.  From Abiquiu, there is the option of staying on the main highway, which is more heavily trafficked, or with slightly greater distance, quiet single-lane backroads to San Juan church on the Pueblo lands of Okay Owingeh.  More backroads lead to Chimayó, although the main route is narrow and fairly busy with traffic.  The last few miles are again on pastoral dirt roads.

Being exploratory, though, I ran into one unfortunate snag, which, by the experience, is already rectified.  Nonetheless, I'll elaborate without exaggeration for the sake of adventure:

After passing through Chama, NM,  I asked at the forestry department for guidance on finding a footpath to the Benedictine Monastery from the north.  They were encouraging and gave general information but told me I should check with the local old timer who grew up as a cowboy in the area and knew every path like the back of his hand.  By grand fortune and coincidence, I was slated to stay at the old man's home that very night, an arrangement of the previous night's gracious host.

True that he knew the area, but the map I got from the forest rangers was too unfamiliar a communication tool and he insisted, brushing the map aside with disinterest, that I could take a compass bearing to get myself to the cliffs above the monastery and then make my way down the canyon wall without rope - 'a horse couldn't make it, but you can,' he assured me.  Hours later, under a pleasant midday sun, I advanced on my belly to peer over the cliff face in safety from the unceasing strong upgusts and looked down at the monastic serenity from the precipitous height.  I scanned and scrambled for three hours trying to find a way down, but all for naught.  I clambered back to the top of Mesa de las Viejas hoping for a cell signal to call the old rancher to come and get me in his pickup, but no luck.  No signal, nearly dead battery.. fifteen miles from the nearest residence; a thousand feet above the unreachable cloister of warmth, shelter, and vesper-singing monks.
Before darkness set in, I spotted a gnarled old cedar in a clearing of pale green sagebrush poking through a field of lumpy granular snow and gathered firewood for the long cold night ahead.  I had plenty of elk jerky, some granola bars, a chocolate bar and one tea bag left in the larder of my backpack acquired over the days of pilgrimage.  My pack cover and rain gear served as the mattress beneath the sweep of the low branches, and with my little down blanket on top, I lit an elongated fire beside me, melted some snow first to drink, then to wash my socks and undies, and settled in to read a bit in the luminous three-quarter moonlight to break up the long 14 nighttime hours.  Psalms, mostly.

My refugio evidently infringed on a nearby coyote mom, who retaliated a good part of the night by teaching her kits how to howl when ever my fire died down.  Aside from the hoots from some unseen owls, the only other sound was the fierce wind rattling the cedars and pinons and casting dancing moonshadows on my erstwhile bedding.  The stars were bright and once the moon fell below the distant mountains at around 3 am, the Milky Way seemed as if it were about to spill through the branches right over me.  I was abruptly roused at dawn by a deafening rattle of an approaching herd of full-galloping elk, spooked, I suppose, by the unwelcome scent of my fire.  It was a startling and beautiful demonstration of the majestic power of nature.  After a makeshift porridge of crushed granola bar dissolved in hot water, I repeatedly melted enough snow in my little tin cup over the revived fire to half-fill my water bottle, yet it froze within an hour of my day-lit exodus toward Abiquiu.

So passed night eight of my pilgrimage, and despite the unintended discomfort, I found it to be intensely enjoyable.  I have the very clear sense that any number among my friends the Saints whom I've gotten to know over my pilgrim years incited the events just for a lighthearted mischievous chuckle.  I made it on to Abiquiu, found posada with a lovely elderly couple, life-long residents who assured me, through their fussing over and feeding me, that the way to access the bottom of the canyon where the monastery lay was miles upstream of where I was erroneously directed.  I've got the route down now and can declare the Old Spanish Trail from Purgatory a viable and beautiful 10-day pilgrim camino to Chimayo.