It must have rained somewhere farther upstream, though, because in the morning the Pecos was running higher, and red-brown with sediment.

By now I had made a decision. I had an extra day to kill anyway - the children wouldn't arrive in Santa Fe until tomorrow evening - and I could use a rest; and I liked it here. So why not?

And so all day Friday I didn't ride any, except for a quick trip into Villanueva to the little grocery store for some provisions. I think Maggie May was glad of the rest too.

Not that I spent the whole day sitting on my ass. There were trails, rough but negotiable, up the sides of the canyon, and I did some climbing and clambering, not so much for the exercise as for the views, which were magnificent.

Upstream from the campground, the canyon opens up into a broad green valley, fertile and well watered. Naturally such a prime bit of real estate, in the middle of desert country, was sure to be claimed, and fought over, by various people. The village of Villanueva began as a Spanish colonial settlement, then changed hands peacefully with Mexican independence. In the 1840s there was even a failed invasion from the Republic of Texas, followed some years later by a more successful takeover by the United States. Up on the mountainside above the Pecos you can still see the remains of rock walls used as defensive works by Mexicans resisting the Anglo invasion.

All of this must have seemed ironic to the Jicarilla Apaches who had considered the valley theirs - or to the ghosts of the Pueblo people whom the Jicarillas had dispossessed.

To say nothing of the even older inhabitants....

A short way off the trail, there are other intriguing relics of bygone times. This little hut (?) surely wasn't big enough for human shelter; I suppose it must have been used for goats or something, but I don't know.

You have to watch out, though, wandering around off-trail; the vegetation is armed and dangerous.

I really wasn't looking forward to leaving this beautiful place, especially for the streets of Santa Fe. Late Friday, though, the weekenders started filling up the remaining campsites, and they were a noisy lot, so it wasn't such a pang to leave after all.

In the morning I took Highway 3 on north - an interesting but not altogether pleasant ride; the road was in terrible condition, and in many places partly buried in washed-down sandy earth. At the intersection with I-25 I stopped at a little gas station to fill up. As I was putting the cap back on a youngish Anglo guy in a goofy hat came up and said, "How many miles do you get to a tank?"

I told him I didn't know; I'd never driven a tank.