My worst fear out, to an irrational level of stress, is about wildlife on the road, especially on Highway 150 going toward Zapata after dark where it seems like nearly every night we’re dodging something. Rabbits, jackrabbits, coyotes. If ever hit anything, I don’t care how small, you can just plan on dragging me out of the van, running me over a few times, and burying me by the side of the road beside it because I’d never get over it.

Tonight I noticed something out of the corner of my eye as I drove, and seconds later a large, six-point buck steps out into the road about 150 feet in front of us. I hit the brake, turn down my lights and lurch to a stop maybe 30 feet away, and he just stands there, only hightailing it across the road when I start to inch toward him again - being afraid he’d stay there and the headlights behind me in the distance might not be paying as close attention. As much as I love the valley, the patience and attention span of a whole lot of its rural drivers leaves a little something to be desired.

My heart beat hard against my chest the rest of the way home.

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There’s a tiny sensor sitting just outside the house that corresponds to the clock on our bedroom wall that shows the outside temperature next to the moon phase next to the inside temperature under the hands of the clock. I sat on the bed for an hour or two this afternoon, the cordless handset sitting in my lap, watching the inside temperature stay at a constant 69.3 degrees while the outdoor temperature dropped from 46.4 to 45.0 to 44.8 and then to 43.1 before I finally put the phone back on the night stand and left the room.

The bad news kept coming all day. First concerns about Ryan, then when those were resolved, I got a note that the husband of a terrific woman I’d just met and started working with, a couple who were in the process of building their own home in the Sangres and whom Shane was looking forward to getting to know, had just died unexpectedly yesterday while they were spending a few days in Denver. Shortly after that it was time for a critical family conversation on which a lot of strong emotions and futures and other important things were riding, and then while that was in progress, we found out another extended family member had passed away yesterday too. I lost the remainder of the day after that.

It’s getting dark by 5 up here in the mountains now, the sun cheating and slipping out a little while before it does in the flatlands. There’s just the barest trace of pink now between the trees, only dark, fingery silhouettes through the slats of the wood blinds in the kitchen while Sarah eats a leftover ham and cheese sub and the rest of us think about turning on the burner for soup and grilled cheese.

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“This is hard.”

Shane sent the text message from his phone about an hour ago. His grandfather’s funeral is this morning, all of the kids and grandkids went over early to start preparing and now people are filing in, coming from outlying towns and as far away as Crane Lake in the northern part of the state to pay their respects and say their goodbyes.

Shane will be one of the pallbearers, and he’s got a passage to read at the service. A few minutes after he sent the message, he called from outside the church and we talked for a little while until his fingers were frozen and he went back inside. I told him I’d have my phone and email on standby if he needs moral support.

It’s snowing again. Millions of tiny, disorderly flakes swirling around the windows. But I can see the sun making a break for it across the valley and coming this way. It should be here and shining by the time I’m out of the shower and packing up the van for town.

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Shane has a hole in his head. Climbing a large Piñon tree to string the lights over and around the new sitting area, a small branch jumped out and bit him in the forehead. The dark ashy spot it left, now slightly bloody, looks like a small gunshot wound and we lament only that it didn’t happen in time for Halloween.

We set up a salt lick and a water source on the other side of the yard for the deer that pass through. I do love this area, and while we love our lot down in the very golden, sunny valley too - part of me wishes we could take some of these trees and rocks with us.

Coffee and a pile of Huevos Rancheros for dinner. Homemade cookies for dessert. Feels like November.

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