Silver City

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A creek runs through it, like the creek that runs through Santa Fe, and maybe it reminds the artists who migrated south from that famed city of their homeland.  Here they can buy a modest house for a fifth of the hiked-up prices in yuppie Santa Fe.  It’s too bad they have to move, but true artists find more pleasure in their art than in the little money most of them get from it. 

N. Bullard Street, Silver City

It’s a pleasant town to walk through, to pop into galleries, funky coffee houses, and thrift stores that carry eclectic, quality goods.  Lots of organic food and herbs here.  But many of the old shops are closed, the two theatres are closed, and the newspaper will stop printing next week.  A huge Walmart is just outside of town, and it might explain the closed shops.  Most of the remaining shops in old Silver City carry things Walmart doesn’t.

I highly recommend Jalisco’s Café on Bullard Street, south of Broadway for its authentic spicy New Mexico enchiladas.

Silver City lives in a far less generous time than the early days of mining upon which the town’s wealth was founded.  A little silver and a lot of copper still come out of the pit mine, but the town ran out of most of those jobs, so it sought tourism—that great redeemer of failed indigenous economies—for posthumous ennoblement.  The artists followed and eke out a slim existence.  

Tomorrow morning, the strong wind that blows much stronger than usual today and in the wrong direction, should die down some, hopefully making the eighty-five-mile ride to the ranger station at Three Way possible.  I called the ranger, and she said the station will be closed, but there will be water from an outside faucet.  After camping there, I will ride to Safford, Arizona, where another motel awaits.