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Excerpts from Abe Peña's  Memories of Cibola

All material used with the kind permission of the author, given to me personally.

from CIBOLA
"The word Cíbola is Spanish for 'female bison' (usually called 'buffalo'). It's interesting to note that the buffalo never came west of the Río Grande to the area we generally consider Cíbola. As pointed out before, Professor Rubén Cobos's definition of Cíbola is 'sixteenth-century Spanish name for Zuni and all the lands which later (in 1583) became known as Nueba Mexico.' Most students of New Mexico history probably first saw or heard the term, as I did myself, in reference to the 'Seven Cities of Cíbola.' The region of Cíbola includes Cíbola County, which was split off from Valencia County in 1981, and parts of McKinley County, including Zuni Pueblo and the Zuni Mountains. And yet Professor Cobos in his definition includes all of New Mexico. The stories in this book generally conform to the narrower boundaries, and those you'll find in this concluding part deal with topics common to the whole area.

I pray you've found the stories interesting and informative. Hopefully the windows you've opened to the past by reading this book will expand your knowledge of the fascinating land of Cíbola and its even more interesting people.


"The year was 1931, the year of the Big Snow, 'El Año de La Nevada.' Snow covered the land of Cíbola and most of the rest of New Mexico at an average depth of 30 inches. It was a shared historic moment for the people who lived through it and for the generation that followed. I was only five years old, so I don't remember much. But I do vaguely recall mother being worried about my father. He was gone most of the winter, taking care of the sheep. She also worried about running out of firewood, since that was the only source of heat we had in the village at the time.


The Big Snow fell in only two days. I can remember my father telling us that it started falling the afternoon of October 31 and continued through November 2. 'We delivered lambs at the stockyards in Grants and were loading them on the train when the snow started. Thank God the storm gave us time to load them and send them on their way, or we might have lost a whole bunch.' On the way to San Mateo with pack burros and horses, they made it as far as the Bibo homestead, some ten miles north of Grants, where they spent the night in their sleeping bags. By dark there were about 8 inches of snow, and it was still falling.


'We got up before daybreak the following morning. The snow reached to below our knees and was still falling. We cooked a hearty breakfast as best we could, then made our way to the corral in the dark and fed grain to our horses in nosebags. At daylight we saddled up and started the eight pack burros and two pack horses ahead, to break the snow. An eerie silence followed us, as we slowly made our way home. We were a small party of five, in a sea of snow--and the snow continued to fall. At dark we got to San Mateo and could barely see the yellow light of kerosene lamps through some windows. The snow was still falling. There were about 2 feet on the ground. By the following morning, the snow stopped and there were about 30 inches. The village was literally entombed in snow.'
According to Alfred Barela, 'When the snow stopped, all the villagers were shoveling trails from the house to the corrals and chicken coops, where the livestock were penned--and to the escusados (outhouses).'


From the Banco del Rito, where he was gathering cattle for Don Rudolfo Otero, came one of the heroes of the Big Snow, Marcelino Jaramillo. Everyone in San Mateo remembers Don Marcelino and what he did for the village that winter. Alfredo says, 'He built a large two-horse driven sled and opened the roads in the village. He hauled wood on the sled to the school and sometimes carried the children--school continued through the Big Snow.'


Ernest Michael told me, 'I was born the year of La Nevada, and of course I don't remember anything. But I do remember hearing later that Don Marcelino built a sled. He always had the fattest horses and they say he kept them in good shape, even in the Big Snow.'


The early snowfall was followed by very cold temperatures and strong winds, and the snow froze. It stuck to the ground through the months of November, December, January, and into February 1932, before it started thawing and the snow receded. Marcelino kept hauling wood and helping people through the long winter. Celito says, 'My father used to say when all the dry wood was gone, he cut a lot of green piñon and sabina trees near the village, in an attempt to keep the people warm.'


Rosalio Baca told me, 'I can't remember much, but I do remember hearing that Don Nazario Sandoval, the mailman, brought the mail from Grants on horseback about once a week.' There was a story told about Don Nazario. When he was asked how the snow was in Grants he answered, 'It snowed more over there, but there is more over here!' I believe what he meant was that Grants had more thaw because of its south exposure, while San Mateo had a much slower thaw because of its north exposure. Don Nazario was a colorful and well-respected gentleman in the village; he had homes in Grants and in San Mateo, where he also was a cattle rancher and a notary public.


After some time, the haystacks began to run out, as did the stored grains. The chickens quit laying eggs. Don Miguel Michael and his wife, Doña Meme, the store owners, had a hard time keeping staples in stock. Supplies came from Grants, and the road was nearly impassable. His and Doña Meme's generosity played a big part in helping the village survive the long hard winter, when there was very little or no money to pay the bills.


Reports of large livestock losses started coming back to the village. In some cases some sheepmen lost more than half the herds, especially those that were caught in the open and got weak before they could be moved into protected canyon country. Sheep losses were in the tens of thousands, and cattle losses were heavy also. My father used to say, 'I was very lucky. When the snow came, my herd was in canyon country in the Canyon Largo area. The steep south slopes had a lot of brush, and the sheep survived with minor losses.'


Stan Hayton lived in the Zuni Mountains at that time and says, 'Old Silvestre Mirabal's sheep were in the Tinaja area. He had the men cut trails with a bunch of mules and they got the sheep to cover. He lost a bunch, but they were able to save the larger part of the herds. Old Silvestre was a good man.'


During the Big Snow in New Mexico, America was heading into the Great Depression of the 1930s. Money was hard to come by and times were tough, but people were equally tough. They were survivors. But after the snow melted and things began to get back to normal, the weather changed and the Great Drought of the 1930s began. Catastrophic sandstorms uprooted many of our neighbors from Oklahoma and sent them through Grants, up Santa Fe Avenue to California, seeking a new life. We were all victims of Mother Nature.


John Steinbeck called their sorrowful saga 'The Grapes of Wrath.' Some of those maligned Okies became oil magnates in California, developing the oil fields of southern California that helped us win the Second World War. But our parents remained in place. Their roots went deep--four centuries into New Mexico soil. We are the children of those remarkable people."