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I visited an archeological dig a couple miles from my house this afternoon. 

After a lovely crepe lunch on the Plaza, I visited my friends Jim Moore and Pat Rogers, who are working on a dig just a minute walk from the La Fonda Inn; their current work is part of the archeological survey required before a building restoration can take place downtown.   Jim is an archeologist who has worked for the state of New Mexico for decades.  He’s a fascinating guy to talk to, extremely knowledgable and terrific at conveying his knowledge.  Pat is a corrnerstone of our little SF/fandom community here in northern New Mexico, but she has had an avid love of archeology forever, and she can swing a pick like nobody’s business.

(Prior to working on the Santa Fe Plaza in the chilly October rain, the crew did a dig at Spaceport America.  I love the image of archeologists digging up ancient pottery on a site where spaceships will someday land.  How cool is that?  Less cool are the helish working conditions they enduring while on the dig.  Backbreaking manual labor during high summer in southern NM?  No thanks.)

This morning, while standing at the bus stop, I was treated to another spectacular sunrise.  (But since I was on my way to work I didn’t have a camera with me.  So you’ll just have to take my word for it.)  I have written about these displays in the past, but today’s was particularly unusual.

It’s the time of year when the aspen trees in the mountains have begun to change color.  So the mountains, which are predominantly black or dark green owing to evergreens, currently have huge swaths of gold splashed along their slopes.  That’s nice enough in the early morning.

But the weather forecast this morning (which turned out to be correct) called for thick, low cloud cover and a 60% chance of rain.  Low clouds often make for the best sunrises, because during those few minutes when the sun is over the mountainous horizon but below the clouds the underside of the cloud bank takes on every color from the red end of the Crayola box. Today, though, we had rain advancing on us from the west while the sun rose in the east.  And as the first bit of sunlight peeked through a cleft in the mountains, setting the sky above us on fire, it also created a rainbow. 

But because of the bright pink glow shining down from the clouds, it washed out most of the blue and green from the rainbow.  It was a red rainbow.  A redbow. 

As the lightshow faded, I realized that my working day is circumscribed by one red glow after another.  Some uplifting, as with the sunrise, while others induce madness.

Every autumn, Albuquerque plays host to the International Balloon Fiesta: a gathering of hundreds of hot air balloonists (and their balloons) from around the world.  People come from as far away as New Zealand to participate in the gathering.   It’s quite common at this time of year to look up and see the sky filled with dozens if not hundreds of hot air balloons.

Autumn in New Mexico is particularly attractive for hot air balloonists owing to something known as the “Albuquerque Box“, a strange but fortuitious wind pattern well-suited to the endeavors of those who seek to emulate the brothers Montgolfier.  I don’t know if the box persists all day long, but it starts early in the day, perhaps even before sunrise.  Which means that if you go to the Fiesta, there will be thousands of people watching the first wave of balloons getting inflated well before sunrise.  And there’s hot chocolate and music and vendors and funnel cakes.  It’s like the State Fair, but at 5:30 in the morning so nobody is fewer people are drunk.

And there are balloons.  Lots and lots of balloons.

Although I have lived here for a number of years now, I still regularly encounter things that remind me I am far from my childhood home. 

Some of these things are delightful, such as the lizards the zoom up and down the neighbors’ wall outside my writing office, to sun themselves on the stucco.  The concept of native lizards tickles me, probably because I never saw a single lizard when I was growing up in Minnesota (several snakes, though).  (Strange, too, because it can get fairly cold here.)  In fact, I like the lizards so much that I find it positively charming when one sneaks into the house.  I think they’re cute; they don’t trigger the “icky pest” reflex in me.  (Except when they hide in my shoes.  That’s an icky surprise.)  

Some of these things are less than delightful.  Such as the Shelob-sized spider I found in the kitchen sink the other night.  It was, in all honesty, the largest spider I’ve ever found in any place I’ve ever lived.  I hate spiders.  And I am not crazy about living in a place where people occasionally find tarantulas (oh god nightmares tonight la la la go to your happy place Ian la la la). 

Another thing that’s less than delightful?  Chamisa.

A rather large moth fluttered into the torchiere lamp while I worked at my desk this evening.  I saw the moth, I saw the lamp, and I just knew my writing session would end with smoke.   It wouldn’t be exaggerating to say I nearly dove for the ceiling fan switch as soon as the moth headed for the lamp.  The fan is running now.  It isn’t helping.

A logical person might wonder why I didn’t instead dive for the lamp.  Perhaps I could have turned it off, and saved myself the lingering stench of death?  Well, sure.  But then I’d still have a moth fluttering around, wouldn’t I?  A moth planning to wait until I fell asleep so that it could land on my face and lay eggs in my eyeballs.   To which I say, burn you little bastard.

Still.  It’s not as bad as the piece of Gene Simmons I was “invited” to sniff last Friday.