Taos, New Mexico
By
Amanda Gradisek

Last year this guy asked me if I wanted to go stay in his family's "earthship" in Taos, New Mexico. Several questions ran through my head at that point, not the least of which was "what the hell is an earthship?" He didn't really answer right away, just asked, "you don't mind if you don't get to shower for a week do you?"

Of course now I was really intrigued/frightened, but I had heard the skiing was great and I wasn't going to be called "girlie" or anything, so I hopped in the car and 24 hours in a Honda CRX and a tour of the Great Plains later I was there…much to my father's dismay.

At first glance, Taos is a tiny town nestled in the mountains of North Eastern New Mexico that can't seem to decide between being an American Indian Reservation, a posh ski resort, or a hippie art commune. Here I had my first experience with these aforementioned "earthships." It appeared that an earthship looked rather like a mound of dirt with some skylights and solar panels, but on upon closer examination, it was a self-sufficient home that filtered its own rainwater, generated its own power, and held the sun's warmth through thermal mass. Under the skylights that I first noticed, planters filled with tomatoes and green peppers climbed skyward and filtered the water from the sink at the same time for a second use in the toilet.

My first experience was with the hippie faction. Arriving at the "earthship" of said guy's family friends I met a family that consisted of a woman who makes gaudy bright "artistic" shirts and pillows for a living, her husband that markets them, plus their three children that they don't believe in disciplining, and the rats that ran free in their house. The occasion: A raw potluck dinner where absolutely nothing is cooked. The guy I journeyed with, Tim, then introduced me to his mother, who had purple hair, and his aunt, who was about to travel to Switzerland for a holistic body workup, and her daughter, a girl who seemed like a more rambunctious version of Laura Ingalls Wilder on Little House on the Prairie, and only wore skirts while she chased jack rabbits through the canyons. These people, I thought, are weird.

The locals, or those that have adopted Taos as their own, in most cases, are almost as varied and eclectic as the city itself. After I met the family with the rats, I met a woman who had just returned from living in a snow cave, another that lived in her VW bus, and a man who believed that he could run a car off of the energy in the air. Not hydrogen, oxygen, or anything like that, but something he called prana. Artisans rule the streets and either home school or send their children to alternative learning schools.

But it doesn't take long to adjust, if you decide you'd like to try the adventure. Three days later I was carrying water from the river to dye my hair bright blue in the back yard. The low powered shower that runs off of rainwater has a system that can't handle even natural hair dye. Soon, I found myself rising with the sun and sleeping shortly after it set, just like one of the locals. At night, I slept in a little alcove that gave me nearly a 180-degree view of the luminescent stars against the huge black Taos sky. I found I liked tofu and tahini and tempeh and all that other weird organic stuff that begins with "T." I was cooking on a wood stove. Waking to the sight of the sun glowing over the jagged line of the Rocky Mountains, I was certain, I could get used to this.

But the people aren't the only reason to go to Taos. The land itself is a spectacular and eclectic mix of Colorado and desert, with its tall gray peaks covered in pines and its flat, sage covered valleys. The Rio Grande runs outside of town dividing the small town resort atmosphere from the earthship colony with a deep gorge you might recognize from Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. The gorge itself is lined with hot springs frequented by locals who burn sage in the cold nights that were hardly what I expected of New Mexico. In the springs at night, you feel out of place if you wear a swimsuit no matter whom you're with. In town, all the McDonalds are covered in adobe and topped with tile. Artists' galleries and quirky ski shops border the Old Pueblo where Native American tribes mix.

But just up the same mountains is the world-renowned Taos ski valley. Here the multimillion-dollar homes scale the slopes so steep that the few earthships clinging to the sides know they'll have no more neighbors…according to safety laws. Once reaching the unassuming base, the first life provides a view of the treacherous front runs that is enough to scare or excite even the most seasoned veterans. The snow here is deep and powdery but not heavy like in Colorado or Utah. The air is so dry that the snow is light and fluffy-luckily for me, as I rolled down the chutes that made the end of the week's stop in Breckenridge seem like child's play. There are no snowboards and all the skiers are good, I mean really good. There are no snow bunnies, only tough locals and those looking for a real challenge. It doesn't matter that there are no clubs and that the road up the mountain takes you through strange little villages and dirt roads. This is no place to come for après-ski, but skiers still come from across the country and from around the globe to ski Taos. Even Julia Roberts has a house in these mountains… or so they say.