"Cerro La Jara" by Melissa Fu

A lone coyote pauses in tall grass near the base of Cerro La Jara.

NPS/Monte White

On my first walk around Cerro La Jara, when rounding the north side of the dome, I see two coyotes hunting and loping along. Their tawny browns, blacks and grays blend in with the grasses. I hold my phone camera up, recording a video while tracking them with my bare eyes. Transfixed, I watch until they dissolve into the landscape. When I look at the video later, they aren’t there. Of course they aren’t. How naïve of me to think I could capture images of these tricksters so easily. Such is my introduction to a trail I will hike many times, and each occasion will be an experience that both enchants and escapes me.

Cerro La Jara is one of the smallest resurgent domes in Valles Caldera. It sticks up in the southwest section of the preserve, an island of mixed conifers in a sea of montane grasslands. Starting from the Entrance Station, the 1.5-mile Cerro La Jara loop is a gentle and popular trail. Tentative hikers or visitors with limited time can usually manage the loop and are rewarded with a sense of Valle Grande’s grandeur and history. When I walk this trail, even if I’m alone, I always feel a sense of community. I see what many others have seen, I follow a trail thick with the echoes of others’ footsteps.

A starry night above Valle Grande and Cerro La Jara.

NPS/Stan Ford

This is the circuit that I took on a night sky walk with around 50 other people midway through my residency. Ahead of and behind me stretched a long line of walkers with headlamps glowing red, led by Ranger Adam Dean. Despite the large size of the group, the walk had a thrilling, hushed intimacy. We paused along the trail as Ranger Adam told us more about prairie dogs, coyotes, elk, badgers, and other inhabitants whose homes we walked among. That night, we had the benefit of a clear sky and a late moonrise, resulting in a dazzling view of the Milky Way.

La Jara means ‘rock rose’. During one lap around the dome, I peer at all the vegetation, trying to figure out which plants could be the La Jara rock roses. I’m not certain I identify them correctly, but I do enjoy the act of slowing down and looking, noticing the shapes of leaves, the shades of green, orange, and red, the occasional late bloom.

As my residency continues, walking the Cerro La Jara loop becomes a habit of my early evenings. Once, after a hike along Rabbit Ridge, I take the loop before returning to the A-frame for the night, even though my legs are tired. A question comes to mind: What am I searching for, on these rambles around Cerro La Jara at dusk?

And the response: Nothing. I’m not searching for anything. This ritual has become a way to mark the end of the day. It is a landing point. Whether I’ve been writing, exploring a new trail, biking, spending a day with a work crew, leading a workshop, or venturing down to Los Alamos, the twilight walk around Cerro La Jara represents a gesture of continuity. It is a way of stitching my varied days together. My walks mark a transition from the doing of the day to the quieter moments of the night. They are liminal, crepuscular, in-between.

A mountain bluebird perched in Valle Grande.

NPS/Corey Lycopolus

During this daily pocket of time and space, prairie dogs scold, elk whistle, coyotes hunt, bluebirds flit, raptors soar. There is always a terrific light and shadow show that the sky, sun and clouds put on for one night only. And it is, without fail, spectacular.

I am starting to recognize the rhyolite rock flow around the southwest side. Somehow the arrangement, accidental yet profound, brings to mind the famous Ryoanji rock garden in Kyoto. Further along the west side, I look across a shallow valley and up a ridge to see herds of elk gathered at the base of South Mountain, near the shelter of the lowest trees. Coming around to the northwest side, if I’ve timed it right, rays of the setting sun glisten on the yellowed grass. Even after so many walks, spotting coyotes remains a trick of light and luck. I look and look and they aren’t there and they aren’t there, until I stand very still and very quiet. Then, I see one, then two, then another pair or three. They glide between the grasses. The slight breeze camouflages their movements, mixing shadows and inflorescence with their spots and tall ears.

Rounding the northeast bend, the land rises and I see mountain bluebirds. I try to creep up on one so I can get a photo of its brilliant blue tail and wing feathers, but I am too far away and too loud. My photos always fall short. After a few rounds, the camera stays in my pocket. I watch and listen instead.

Distant hikers on the Cerro La Jara Loop.

NPS

My walks around Cerro La Jara evolve from the initial exhilaration of any new trail – wanting to exclaim at each vista, linger over each flower, take multitudes of photos – to a place of contemplation. As I walk, questions of the day have space to untangle, priorities and desires separate from perceived obligations or self-created worries. The loops around La Jara are a soothing sorting of the day from the day, emptying my thoughts into the wind, which plays with them until they are wisps of dust.

By the third week, these walks serve no purpose beyond walking. I forget to worry or solve a problem or plan the next day or reflect on the day just passed. I arrive and I am there. Above the soft crunch of my footsteps on the path, I hear elk bugling, grasses rustling, birds bickering, prairie dogs sounding their alarms. As sound fills my ears, inner chatter diminishes. Now when I scan the landscape, I no longer hold it at arm’s length saying, “there are the elk,” “this plant is pussy toes,” “that’s a blue spruce.” The practice of naming fades away and I’m in a daydream.

The circuit finishes before I know it; my feet have followed the path they’ve come to know and expect at this time of day. I’m not simply on the path or in the landscape. For those few moments each evening, I am of the land.

Duration:

1 minute, 8 seconds

Artist-in-residence Izzy Anderson composed this fun piano tune in October 2024. Each part of the song represents a different sound that you might hear while hiking through Valles Caldera's montane grasslands: footsteps on the trail, prairie dogs chattering, wind blowing through the grasses, elk bugling, and birdsong.

Learn about the Artist in Residence program!