The peaks above me look misty, too. That’s probably water vapor; I can almost hear the snow melt.
All that I see is real.
I couldn’t accept that a month ago. Hiking in Juan Tabo Canyon, wildfire smoke from the West Coast hung above us. I spent four hours convincing myself that couldn’t be smoke, the day was too bright, the air smelled clean.
But at home, when I downloaded my photos, I could not deny the visible layer of smoke in almost every image.
A layer of smoke or dust has been visible in nearly every photo I’ve taken on a hike since.
Smoke and dust don’t discriminate. But we do, in where we welcome and shut out people or industry. I don’t risk my health when I walk in my neighborhood or hike in Placitas. But in Albuquerque’s South Valley, where the population is mostly Hispanic or Latino, a walk might trigger an asthma attack or worse. In recent months, the South Valley’s air pollution levels have frequently been at least twice as high as those further north in the Albuquerque metro.
Once I might have thought of hiking as an escape from things like that.
But no place, no matter how lovely, exists separate from climate change and environmental racism.
By the end of this century, journalist Laura Paskus writes, Albuquerque’s climate will look more like that of El Paso. The pinon-juniper forest where I sit, inhaling the scents released by snow, will likely be a distant memory.
I leave the overlook after 50 minutes, grateful for its sun and snow.
This place is a blessing, but it’s not an escape – and even if it was, I’d be wrong to take it.
Woman Seeks Elevation 