Climate change. Mountain time. The road fools with your mind. The way is winding and eves of cliffs are on the wings and waiting. Twists and turns. The sun burns. New Mexicans don't know it yet, but we are going to be pleased to meet them. Green chili. Altitude. Out of breath climbing down from the bus. This is like touching down in a brand new country, or perhaps in a different era. Our Albuquerque plans fell through last minute and left us an opening in our evening schedule. On a tip from our friend Aaron we made the jog north well after dark to a rocky lot and the tiny town of Madrid. Some have made a living drilling and extracting minerals from the ground here. These people are sun-touched and many know what the soil feels like in their open palms. We met the country's last living cattleman, John Wayne Haynes. Two years ago this soft spoken gentleman left his Michigan ranch on horseback, driving south and sleeping under a different sky each night for six months. He settled into a nearby teepee and he has no access to electricity. He seemed like a long lost uncle of ours. Exchanging words with him you get the impression that he is living in the future, in a time when things his imagination thought impossible exist. Continents are crossed in a matter of hours these days. Satellites orbit. Radios make waves his soul refuses to brave. He does not wear a wrist watch. The brim of his hat hides his hair and his snow white beard stretches down like a scarf. John Wayne strummed and sang and thrilled the crowd. We might have been among the most impressed.
John Wayne Haynes, by Sara Kerens