There's a certain kind of feeling that exists only in the high desert of New Mexico.

It's not exactly peaceful. It's heavy. It's the kind of feeling that feels like a hand

pressing on your chest, reminding you that you are small, you are transient, and the ground

beneath your feet has been here far longer than you have.

If you take Highway 14 out of Santa Fe, heading south toward Albuquerque, you'll find yourself on the turquoise trail.

Now, if you're looking for the postcard version of New Mexico, the $800-and-night Adobe boutique hotels, the pristine, air-conditioned

galleries, the soft-focused sunsets enjoyed over a nice plate of artisanal go-chees.

Well, you took a wrong turn about 20 miles back.

This road is different.

It's dusty.

It's wind scratched.

And it's lined with juniper and a whole lot of broken dreams.

But midway down this trail, tucked into a narrow, jagged valley in the Ortiz Mountains,

lies a place called Medrid.

Now, let's get one thing straight before we go any further.

It's Medrid.

It puts a heavy accent on the first syllable, a heavy accent that my tongue cannot produce.

And if you say Madrid, like the city in Spain, the locals will look at you like you just

ordered a decaf soy latte in a biker bar.

I'm probably going to call it Madrid this entire time because my tongue doesn't like to cooperate.

But Medrid, and I'm going to do my best to say that, is what you would call

a semi-ghost town. Today, it's a vibrant, colorful, aggressively eccentric artist colony. The

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