Last September I attended a water association meeting in Penasco, New Mexico. The acequia photographed above is one of several thousand water ditches and collateral offshoots in New Mexico. This ditch alongside the road to Dixon, New Mexico, is not a part of the water association at Penasco although the two towns are close together and divert off of the Embudo Watershed.
Author Archives: Jack Matthews
(This new post derives from my previous post, “Not mine, not yours, but ours: Penasco Upper Llano acequias,” October 2011.)
From Amarillo, Texas, I drove to northern New Mexico in 1968. I traveled by way of Las Vegas, Mora, and Penasco, making camp along the upper watershed of the Rio Santa Barbara for a few days. I vividly remember a man plowing his field with horses near Mora and the narrow strips of farm land that bordered rivers and irrigation ditches. The narrow strips of irrigated land not only reflected a precise lay of the land by residents and survey crews, but the long lots reflected a community, a meshing of rural families alongside a water greenbelt. In later anthropological field trips, I took my Amarillo College students by the Pecos River irrigated plots along State Highway 3 that ran from Interstate 40 to Interstate 25 between Santa Rosa and the Pecos Pueblo. (Click to see Google map of the Pecos River plots.)
The system of irrigation is called acequia, referring both to the irrigation ditch and the association of members organized around it.
I have never owned land in New Mexico, but if I did I would buy a parcel of land that had water rights to an acequia, a system that stretches back in time to Native American communities before the arrival of the Spanish who brought laws respecting community water rights (riparian rights). Having land that possesses an acequia, one gains entry into a community that cleans, rebuilds and nourishes the ditches and, further, is granted rights to meet in a democratic association to discuss apportioning water and policies affecting owners that border the irrigation ditch.
Several weeks ago, I came across a piece of property near Penasco that if I could sell my ranchito, I would buy and move my horses and equipment post haste to Penasco Upper Llano. See the following Google map: This is the map-image of the Penasco Upper Llano property and other long lots of community property.
This particular piece of property with the house pictured above is located in the high country between Taos and Santa Fe and can produce 700 bales of hay a year. The water rights go back to 1789, the year that the United States inaugurated its first president, George Washington. The surveyor’s plat looks like this:
Several good books and narratives have been written about the acequia culture. Stanley Crawford in his work, Mayordomo: Chronicle of an Acequia in Northern New Mexico (1988), writes of the acequia culture:
There are few other civic institutions left in this country in which members have as much control over an important aspect of their lives; relatively autonomous, in theory democratic, the thousand acequias form a cultural web of almost microscopic strands and filaments that have held a culture and landscape in place for hundreds of years….
Ditch-cleanings are all very much the same, and in this they often feel more like ritual than work. The crew varies from year to year: a couple of old men don’t turn up each year, a couple of boys barely able to handle a shovel, fifteen- and sixteen-year-olds, take their places; the weather is better or worse than some vague notion of what is usual, mayordomos come and go and some are responsible and fair, others vindictive, punitive, almost military, others are lazy and heedless of the needs of the ditch; and the crew can be a good-natured, hard-working creature, or sullen and complaining and evasive, qualities perhaps dictated by the amount of pride or fear circulating through the hearts of both those in charge and those doing the actual digging….
Buddy Manzanares who, on one of my last perfunctory inspection tours half an hour from the end of the spring digging, calls on me to admire a meticulously dug out and cleaned up tarea [a grave-size chunk of the ditch], with the banks cleaned of grass and squared neatly where they end in the bottom of the smoothly shoveled-out channel….This man knows how to make this small thing, this chore, into more than we commonly imagine, and what can be more important to know in this life, than just that.
Mayordomo, pp. 176, 224, 228-29.
The deep thing about acequia that attracts me is the ready-made community that circulates around water rights that nourish subsistence crops and the growth of hay. The isolation of many Texas ranches and the people that tend them and steward their animals is not good; in fact, it diminishes the rancher to a coarse individuality that thins the possibilities of human endeavors, insinuates a obsessive pecuniary attitude about the land and narrows civic — read unselfish — behavior to the mere casting of a vote once or twice a year for politicians.
There are western ranching communities that transcend these deficiencies, I grant you, but the tendency has been to sell out or buy more land, thus expelling more people from the agrarian way of life. I have experienced this and have witnessed the deleterious affect upon my family.
I do not romanticize the acequia culture because it is a human community and there will be conflict and law suits. Nonetheless, there exists an association of men and women meeting about water and how to nourish their livestock, beans, alfalfa, corn, tomatoes, okra, flowers, lawns, chilis, vineyards, peaches, plums, apricots, coastal bermuda, roses, trees, and every other conceivable plant needing water that flourishes from the earth. Having an acequia culture forces upon us the lesson about sharing in real, material ways that no desk-bound, box-bound person will ever learn. The basic premise is: water is limited, we all need it, how will we share it? And, how are we going to keep it coming down the ditch? The answer: let’s talk about it, let’s vote on it, let’s implement our decision, and we will meet again.
Like so many other things in life, the ditch is more than a ditch. The acequia and the water is not mine, not yours, but ours. Water is life, and in this case, Life is a Ditch.
Notes, corrections and additions:
The language keyboard for Spanish and diacritical markings frustrates me. Hence, the Spanish diacritical markings for “Penasco” are missing, although about every 20 times, I can get the tilde above the “n” in Penasco. If anyone has any suggestions within the WordPress format to easily apply diacritical markings to writing, please comment or drop me an email at email@example.com. I am intent upon using proper markings, but I am not going to spend ten minutes every time I need a tilde to paste it on. Can Windows Vista do anything right? Of course they can, but you have to update your browser every five minutes. And, then restart.
Norman Clyde taught, read, guided mountain climbs and rescues. “Norman Clyde still guided parties into the Sierra into the 1960s, when he was in his seventies. In the 1950s and 1960s, he lived by himself at the old Baker ranch-house on Baker Creek near Big Pine. Because he was trained in the classics, Norman Clyde loved to read books in Latin and Greek. At the Baker ranch-house, Clyde had thousands of rare classical books. At age 80, he was still sleeping outside the ranch-house on a mattress and sleeping bag, as long as it was fair weather.”
The above photograph on the cover of the magazine, Climbing, I have kept since a friend of mine, Mark Garlin, gave me the magazine in 1972. Norman Clyde died later that year, December, 1972, at the age of 87. I have kept the magazine at my ready shelf since that time because of my love of climbing mountains and the presence of strength and fortitude in Clyde’s face and posture. Despite age, he has tools of his love and trade beside him: rope, ice axe, and rucksack.
When I have climbed mountains by way of trail and path, not rope nor ice axe, I have met young and old, educated and not, rich and poor, and men and women who love the outdoors and the challenge of a good climb. Without fail, those that are on the trail take an interest in the columbine and rushing waters and all the conifers in high country. Oh, the trees: ponderosa pine, spruce, juniper, pinion. There is learning in the austere mountain trail that is both external and internal. In the external, one sees and usually identifies geological formations, the topography, the magpies and jays, and the trees. Internally, the lessons run deep and are formative, even in old age.
Norman Clyde in the photograph above was in his eighties. The perseverance in his climbing is found off the slopes in building strawbale compounds (as my good friend, Jimmy Henley, was doing at the time of his death in his seventies), performing the arts, climbing trees as a trimmer, and pursuing goals in getting a degree. If ever you think you are too old, think of Norman Clyde on the front cover, the mountains behind and the tools of his adventure about him. Clyde will climb until his body fails.
As I wrote, I keep Clyde’s photograph on my ready shelf. If he can climb at his age, I can hike and build fence and mountaineer at my age. As I climb in the high country, three questions arise: What am I doing here? What should I do? And, how do I know? The answers are simple and complex. I am hiking. I am hiking. I know I am hiking in this moment at my pace, walking among the trees, hearing birds, seeing and hearing rushing waters, touching ground, seeing the sky as I meet others on the trail. Those are my three answers. In a sense, those are everyone’s answers. Until our bodies fail. Norman Clyde, front cover, Norma Clyde, front cover….
Photograph of Norman Clyde by David Hiser.
Quote in first paragraph from Wikipedia, “Norman Clyde,” accessed Aug. 23, 2016.
The three questions in the last paragraph are derivative from my course in philosophy at University of Texas at Austin, 1961. On the Philosophy Department’s website page (at least a couple of years ago) those questions were posed in a slightly different way.
I climbed with Mark Garlin, my friend who gave me the magazine. He lectured at the Air Force Academy in the 1970s on climbing and survival in the mountains.
I am in Far Field this morning. The grass is high and here and there in the field are young pecan trees leafing out. There is a large pecan tree in the field and a unkept grove of pecan trees to the south of me on the Old Bryant place.
In letting these young pecans thrive, I do so to let things live, grow as they might, and perhaps in the future a nesting place for birds, shade for Angus cattle. And, a few pecan nuts will in the distant future be picked up, pocketed.
Who might rest in the shade of the young pecan tree? I do not know, but some living thing will find comfort. I hear birds singing.
I send you Merry Christmas greetings from Taos, New Mexico, where I am visiting my family.
Snow falls today and Taos Mountain is obscured, yet clouds dash past and the peak emerges in sunlight.
I drove about this morning and Mass was being said at Ranchos de Taos and Old Martina’s Hall beckoned me to come in and warm myself, in time, at the bar again. I will go again.
Aspens grow high next door.
I split wood and keep the fire burning. This period of time, December 10 through January 20, is The Time for Staying Still, according to Taos Indian ceremonialism. Letting the earth renew itself is The Purpose, the reason for staying still. Merry Christmas and Happy New Year. Renew yourself.