King of the Road - July 2011
Ghost of a Chance
The Old West lives on in today's Cimarrón
Story and Photography by
Lesley S. King
I grew up with a ghost. In the attic of my family’s 1850 hacienda outside Las Vegas, New Mexico, the specter of Santa Fe Trail merchant Samuel B. Watrous bumped around, occasionally scaring away a houseguest. Some nights I shivered under my sheets as I sensed him standing in the corner of my room. Certainly, I had a child’s vivid imagination—but I still wonder about the presence of the spirit of the man who, in the room adjoining mine, allegedly died from two pistol shots to the head.
So as I enter Cimarrón, 55 miles northeast of Taos along U.S. 64, my palms on the steering wheel are damp with sweat. The whole place feels a little spooky because tonight, in this town of 850 living residents, I suspect I will once again sleep with a bona-fide ghost—the place is rumored to be full of them. In the 1800s, many noble and notorious characters traveling along the Old Santa Fe Trail stopped here, such as frontier lawmen William Barclay “Bat” Masterson, Pat Garrett, and Wyatt Earp; and outlaw Jesse James. It’s a place where past and present collide.
I start my visit with Cimarrón’s walking tour of Old Town, with 14 historic sites along dusty streets. I pass the spot where, in the 1850s, land baron Lucien B. Maxwell built a grand home from which he ran his two-million-acre spread. The house burned down, but the grave of his daughter Verenisa still sits under some cottonwoods. With spirits of the Old West on my mind, I draw near the ornate iron fence surounding the grave. Suddenly, to my right, a branch cracks. My heart pounds as I turn to see the cause: six deer bounding away through brush.
A little less steady on my feet, I continue my tour. I stop at the 1864 Aztec Grist Mill (a.k.a. the Old Mill Museum), which holds three stories’ worth of artifacts and period photos. Here I find frontiersman Kit Carson’s saddle and, in the cellar, the mill’s grinder, which once ground corn and wheat. Except for the curator, I’m alone in the old stone structure; as I climb the rickety stairs, I sense through these artifacts, which once were their belongings, the presences of the pioneers, ranchers, and miners who have gone before me.
When You Go WHAT TO DO & WHERE TO SHOP Explore the Arts in Cimarrón Cimarrón Art Gallery Philmont Scout Ranch WHERE TO STAY & DINE |
Next, I head over to what’s called New Town, a historic street with shops and galleries. An elegant red-brick building dating from 1915 is today the studio of L. Martin Pavletich, whose grandfather came from the former Yugoslavia to northeastern New Mexico to work in a coal mine. “The mining history here gave us a real mix of people—Slavs, Italians, Spanish,” Pavletich says. Already, my mind is conjuring up a veritable rainbow of ghosts—but I bring my attention back to this spot, where Pavletich paints and sells his pastel and oil landscapes, which capture the majesty of the landscape here, where the Rockies meet the Great Plains.
Just down the street is the Cimarrón Art Gallery, where I find Valerie Kutz, who sells regional art, ice cream, and espresso. Along one wall of the building, which in 1928 was a drugstore, Boy Scouts have left their presence in the form of 1,387 colorful sewn patches—a tribute to the nearby 137,000-acre Philmont Scout Ranch, where, each summer, some 22,000 scouts come to hike and learn leadership skills. Since Philmont’s first camping season, in 1939, nearly a million scouts have visited, and I wonder just how many of their ghosts have decided to stick around. People interested in finding out more about Philmont history can visit three museums and two shops here.
I finish my tour at the Express St. James Hotel, where I meet manager Steve Boyce. He shows me around, pointing out details of the recent $5 million renovation of this 1872 hotel, built by Frenchman Henri Lambert, who had previously been employed as a cook to Lucien Maxwell. “I wanted a place that feels like an old pair of blue jeans—clean and comfortable,” he says. Indeed, the hotel has a frontier elegance that’s accented with history—of both the Old West and the paranormal.
Western author Zane Grey slept and wrote here, and Buffalo Bill Cody and Jesse James were also guests. Some 26 men allegedly met their ends in the bar (it’s no longer so rowdy), where bullet holes still pock the tin ceiling. Meanwhile, the ghosts of T. J. Wright, a hotel guest, and Mary Lambert, Henri’s wife, inhabit their respective rooms upstairs. After dinner, I head to Mary’s room to sleep. “You should have no trouble from her,” the front desk manager assures me as I pick up my key. Mary was known for her hospitality.
Still, as I climb into bed I’m unsettled, and toss and turn as I listen a little too keenly for noises. But it’s been a busy day, and I soon fall into a deep sleep.
In the dead of night, I awaken to a tapping on my door. I sit up, startled, my mind racing. “Who’s there?” I call out.
No one answers.
But I hear footsteps and giggling trailing down the hall.
I lie still, heart hammering and body damp with sweat. I’m probably just the target of a prank, but still—I can’t sleep. I worry I will lie awake until dawn, just as I did on those childhood nights I spent fearing the ghost of Samuel B. Watrous, when I was afraid to even breathe lest I disturb him. Now, all of the Cimarrón ghosts I’ve heard about today seem to crowd around my little brass bed.
I breathe deeply and remember what
I call the True Lesley, who has the bravery of a Boy Scout and is always calm. As I drift off, I recognize that ghosts—real or imagined, of this world or beyond—will harm me only if I believe they can.
As w
With a steadier hand, I eat a spoonful of posole. It tastes delicious.
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