“Do not let Herbie off-leash,” I said to John. “This neighborhood has coyotes.”
We’d just arrived in Taos, our primary destination on this journey and temporary home. I looked out at the Sangre de Christo mountains as I spoke, which made me feel small. To the east, their peaks were glowing red.
Moments after the sun went down, we heard a long, chilling howl. Almost cartoonish yet instantly recognizable, we knew exactly what it was. We looked at each other, but before we could say a word, that rallying cry inspired a reckless gaggle of coyotes to launch together into their yipping, yelping desert song.
The coyotes sound unnervingly close, even chilling, but John and I still go out every night to trace shapes in the sky. We bought a nine-dollar sky map recommended by a ranger at White Sands National Park, and we are putting ourselves through a crash course to learn—or relearn—the constellations. We can’t see them back east.
I can occasionally make out Ursa Major at home, or the Great She-Bear, though when she shows up only her tail appears, which is better known as The Big Dipper. The Dippers were the primary star-shapes I learned as a child, and seeing them now still makes me feel lucky. But in West Texas, Northern New Mexico, and Southern Colorado, our luck must have multiplied: We have gotten to know Pegasus, Cassiopeia, Hercules, Sagittarius, Cygnet, Bootes, Corona Borealis, Orion, Scorpius, and Ursa Minor. Every night, they return.
After spending some nights getting our bearings in the late-summer sky, it started to feel like I am here, in part, to be present for this conversation with the stars. Like nightly visits are mandatory and my days would be incomplete without them. Like if I listen hard enough, I might learn something—or remember something I already know.
Sometimes clouds and the waxing moon interfere with our desire to stargaze, and sometimes the constellations’ positions seem to shift. It is alluring to track nature’s changes night after night, though I cannot imagine what it might have been like to rely on those observations without knowing the house, lights, and internet are all waiting 20 yards away. When you’re seeing it for yourself, watching the drama of the stars unfold, following the moon as it moves through different constellations and aligns itself with planets over the course of a month, each of which has its own story to tell, our ancestors’ relationship with the stars begins to make more sense. But even today, the same dark skies that guided and inspired the ancients—the same shapes that helped them pass stories down and make sense of their existence—are putting me in contact with the cosmos. All I have to do is look up. That puts me at ease.
“Look! Do you see that? The stars are twinkling. They’re really twinkling. I can’t believe it.” I said to John one night.
Those stars, which are so numerous and majestic that my modern eyes can only register them as some kind of Disney approximation of what a night sky might be, some screen set far above me on a ride in the Magic Kingdom, some magical stand-in for the real starless thing, were glittering and shimmering on repeat. It feels so rare to see stars twinkling nowadays that I had nearly forgotten they can do that, no matter how often the famous lullaby tries to remind me. A few nights into our new nighttime habit, our bodies mapped to the rise and fall of the sun, and we found ourselves exhausted after it went down, unable to be up late or stay outside in the dark too long. Our only option, it seems, is to take in whatever stars we can, go to bed, and wait for the sun to rise again.
Once we tuck ourselves in, we hold books in the air till our eyelids grow heavy and can no longer stay open. That is usually the moment when, in Taos, we hear a nearby band of coyotes howling, singing together, yipping and yapping their chorus at the moon.
Over time the coyotes’ song became a comfort to me, like the night sky. They would keep to themselves, I knew, scavenging in the dark, and we were safely in bed. Something about those sounds of the desert—this untouched land with a distinct sense of place—puts me in touch with my own inner wildness. When the coyotes howl, some part of me celebrates their song.
Maybe this, in part, is why the lore of the West always pulls people back. Its open skies and expansive potential help us return to forgotten—yet fundamental—parts of ourselves. It draws us in and sets us free.
I am not kidding about this: I found a place where the stars still twinkle and the coyotes howl. I am singing, too.
Between you and me—
Hi, my people. Greetings from a small mountain town in Colorado. We may not ever drive back home.
I’m kidding. Mostly. But I am certain that these places will become bigger parts of our lives over time, which gives me something to look forward to. Yesterday we hiked Garden of the Gods, which is the best name for a park I’ve ever seen. The alliteration, the vaguely polytheistic turn, the nod to gardeners everywhere.
On Monday we went sledding at Great Sand Dunes National Park, which I recommend; add it to your someday list. Wiping out is part of the experience. In fact, I severely underestimated how much sand I would eat that day. My eyes were ringed in sand. My ears were full of sand. My nose. My pants. Do not get me started on the pants.
John and I went to the drive-in last week in Taos, something I did as a child in Monetta, South Carolina (shoutout The Big Mo) but was completely new to him. We loved it. We saw North by Northwest, Hitchcock’s spy thriller that involves an innocent man and his double agent lady scaling Mount Rushmore. You might enjoy it.
Till next time—wishing you a joyful week.
WE’RE ALL FRIENDS HERE is written by Lauren Maxwell. If you enjoy this newsletter, please consider supporting it by becoming a sponsor. You can also click the heart, share online, or forward to a friend. It all helps!