Adventures in Chama

Me; trying to make amends with coffee. 

It was a story I was certain would be great. Unfortunately, it turned out to be a bust. When the founder and volunteers of Healing America's Heroes marched through the Daily Post's door on a Thursday afternoon, hoping for some publicity, it was as though events were touched by divine, holy hands. Perhaps the Patron Saint of Writers and Journalists, St. Francis de Sales, was intervening on my behalf.

 This group brought with them a great story. Healing America's Heroes is a nonprofit that uses horses and fly fishing to heal veterans' mental wounds. They operate at a ranch in Chama. I interviewed these individuals and at the interview's conclusion they invited me to come out to the ranch and experience Healing America's Heroes in action.

There was a bit of a waiting period before the next program got underway but finally June 26 arrived. It had been a small wrestle to get directions to the ranch but after a few e-mails and some follow-up calls, I received instructions. My mother joined me on this expedition to report on this great story and we set off early Monday morning.

The drive to Chama was beautiful. The scenery from Abiquiu to Chama is just lovely and maybe because of the loveliness  surrounding us the time whizzed by and we were in Chama's city limits  before we knew it. My instructions were to find a bed and breakfast inn at 3rd and Maple Street. I was also told to go to the intersection of two highways. Our attempt to find the intersection yielded nothing so we stopped at a tourist information center for answers.

The tourist information center was composed of a small, one room building. It featured a wire rack of various maps and pamphlets and not much else save for a popcorn machine just starting to whip up its first batch of buttered popcorn. A buttery, burnt smell filled the room. This room was also occupied by individuals we supposed were employees.  A blonde-haired woman who was talking on a phone outside and a young man who looked like he was in his early 20s. We asked him about the bed and breakfast-nothing. We asked about Healing America's Heroes but he knew nothing of that either. We asked how to get to 3rd and Maple Street. The kid also knew nothing about Maple Street but he did direct us to 3rd Street.

Onward we went. We found 3rd Street then Maple Street and finally the bed and breakfast. There wasn't a soul there. Even the inn's front door was locked. I called the founder of Healing America's Heroes and got no answer so I left a message. I called another number and was informed the voice mail wasn't set up. I called the main line to Healing America's Heroes and was told to call the founder's number. Walking around the inn, I discovered a young woman working in the kitchen. She was chopping away at some vegetables when I interrupted her to please tell us where everyone with Healing America's Heroes was at.  They had left but she contacted her husband for directions to get to their location.

My mom and I drove down the street that turned into a dirt road and ended at a metal gate that was thoroughly secured by a thick rusted iron chain and three padlocks. I kept calling all the numbers I had for the nonprofit but no one was answering; the ringing went on and on. We decided to leave the car on the side of the road and walk to our destination, which we believed to be a house perched on a hill. Our hike was interrupted by a shiny red truck driving down the hill. The man inside, with a tattoo on his arm and cowboy hat on his head, stopped to say if we were looking for Healing America's Heroes, they were not in sight. He had driven from White Rock to volunteer in the program and teach tying flies and the group seemed to have vanished, leaving the poor man behind.

At that point, my mom and I gave up. I tried to make up for the fact that my mom got up early, drove two hours and then was made to wonder in circles for an hour by buying her a coffee but even the latte was lackluster.

You know what St. Francis de Sales was known for? His patience and his gentleness. I am not patient and when I realized there would be no story; my mind wasn't exactly gentle. But then I re-grouped; I realized there was a story after all. And it was, in fact, a great one. It's the story of how my mother and I went on a crazy tour of the very small town of Chama in search of a nonprofit whose whereabouts remain unknown. The more I think of this story, the more infamous it becomes so I just had to share this great story with you.

My mother; a very good sport