I had reserved a Hyundai Veloster; a reasonable hatchback perfect for traversing the mesas and pueblos between Hatch and Taos in search of rare heirloom chiles whenever I could sneak away from work. But, to my chagrin, the green-haired youth at Hertz said that would be impossible. A reservation blunder left me instead with a bright yellow Dodge Charger, at no additional cost to my employer. All evidence pointed toward a mystery I needed to solve. With the hand of the Trickster god guiding me, I started the fiery yellow Charger and hit the trail, speeding far outside city limits.

The winter sun hung low and spied behind gauze clouds, a suspended red disc, watching.

I had time to kill before checking into the faux adobe La Quinta. The weather took a turn for the worse, flurries thickening over I-25, so I pulled off to search the maps and do some reconnaissance amid the snow. A circuit of pawn shops, swap meets and thrift stores kept me on surface streets — a small respite from the elements. The treasures would reveal themselves as the storm passed, I intuited. In a free-flowing mental state, objects of high value would manifest before me. A few stops in, I found a shop of wonders: mountains of salvaged electronics, a graveyard of analogue radios, oscilloscopes and devices of long past scientific ambition — a private 1000-plus square feet in the back of an army surplus.

Saint Nick himself would be jealous of the childlike enthusiasm I radiated. I carefully selected box after box of chunky metal relics, cracking each open like a predator discovering an unattended nest. At the center: the rich, yolky prize — my electronic feast of eggs, each containing the coveted AX7 vacuum tube.

A vintage AX7, in perfect working condition, is like the silky heirloom chile sauce in the enchilada of a boutique guitar amplifier. Visiting Guitar Center or Chiles Cantina only offers a pale approximation of the true artistry. Modern, mass-produced variations are fun, but the vintage tube — like a northern New Mexico heirloom chile — carries an essence that cannot be replicated. It is a tool of pure potential, one that approaches the value of the art it helps create, becoming, in its own right, art itself.

Nearby sat a pile of gutted semi-new laptops, still in their black briefcase carriers. Insignificant to most, but I was working in the art department on a TV show; and these would make perfect set dressing for an upcoming shoot. Every purchase justified on the receipt could plausibly be reimbursed by my employer. Some men collect coins; others collect thermionic relics; I collected both, still vaguely aware that the universe often rewards the curious.

On the way to La Quinta, the Albuquerque Downs Racetrack and Casino appeared—a reasonable place for a hot drink before quarters were readied. I never partake in games of chance, and seldom bet on sports, but the Albuquerque Downs gave me more than I bargained for. Not the seating, the reasonably priced bar with wifi, nor the anxiously calm aura of the sportsbook—but the snowy parking lot found littered with the broken glass of the Charger’s driver-side window.

A haze of fog and snowflakes made visibility poor, biting winds encouraging a full jacket zip and hoodie pulled overhead. A perfect place for a thief. My Charger must have looked like a treasure trove to the trained eye of the parking lot raider: a backseat full of laptops and esoteric electronics, the kind of thing only a mad scientist or cyborg spy would possess.

Maybe I wasn't dealing with a run of the mill thief? Was I being tailed or surveilled by a more clandestine opp? A jealous and deranged propman from a rival TV production? Speculation about the fiend who wronged me had to wait. The more pressing matter was a 30 minute trek with no driver-side window in a blizzard. 

Ten painful minutes later, a frontage road led me to a Mom and Pop truck stop. There I secured a tarp and duct tape remedy. My luggage and valuables were safe in the trunk. The only things stolen were the broken laptops and empty briefcases — items that had sparked the theft, yet might now justify reimbursement. My precious vacuum tubes were untouched.

I was starved and felt wild and feral. A voice called out to me.

“I have it here, brother.”

A man with two silvery braids matching the rings on his impossibly thick fingers gestured toward a crock pot and pump-thermos by the register.

“Carne adobada burritos… and piñon coffee. A man like you could have two or three.”

It was like nothing I had ever tasted. The red chile in the small flour tortilla sparkled, rich and dark — the color of ancient desert blood. The braised pork was sweet, spicy, and tender. The coffee nutty with hints of cinnamon that warmed me and brought tears to my eyes.

“It’s Chimayó chile,” he said. “Pretty fuckin good, eh?”

The cold loosened its grip. That night, in the humming warmth of the La Quinta, I dreamed:

A strange mutant landscape. An old American gas station beneath an over-white sky. The clerk stands behind the counter, unmoving — bulbous head, heavy features, his shirt stretched tight across improbable flesh. I hand him my buck fifty. He nods.

At the pump, the nozzle clicks hollow.

Empty.

Beyond the asphalt a bleached landscape — irrigation pivots abandoned, the air lizard-dry. Figures wander without urgency. No wind. No traffic. Only the sense that something yet can be squeezed from the bone dry electric air.

I wake with the taste of carne adobada still lingering in my mind followed by one word:

Chimayó.*

To be continued?

*Read our February 2026 issue of The Blotter for our full entrée on Chimayó: https://blotter.herodose.cc/february-2026