In late September of 1975, I caught my first glimpse of a snow-capped western mountain; it was Mt. Taylor, 11,302 feet, rising WNW of Albuquerque, New Mexico. This majestic stratovolcano stands above the San Mateo Mesa, a Pliocene-Pleistocene volcanic field that overlies sediments from the Cretaceous Sea. Rifting along an ancient suture line in the Precambrian basement rock is thought to have triggered the volcanism and the formation of Mt. Taylor, which once rose at least 5000 feet higher than it does today; geologic evidence suggests that the peak formed between 3.3 and 1.5 million years ago.
Mt. Taylor looms near the southwest end of the volcanic field which is oriented SW to NE, crossing I-40 at Grants, New Mexico (the peak is ENE of Grants); the entire mesa is east of the Continental Divide and rises above the west edge of the Rio Grande Rift. A massive amphitheater on the southeast face of Mt. Taylor was initially thought to have resulted from a lateral explosive eruption (similar to that which occured on Mt. St. Helens); however, geologists have since determined that it is the product of erosion along that edge of the central crater. One of many late Tertiary volcanic fields across northern New Mexico and northern Arizona, Mt. Taylor and its associated peaks are the closest to a large metropolitan area and this prominent summit is surely one of the more recognizable natural landmarks across the Desert Southwest.
Those of us who are fond of mountain landscapes tend to be most enamored with isolated peaks, especially those that rise above arid terrain. Their gleaming snowpacks are a magnet for humans and wildlife alike, promising a cool retreat amidst the sun-baked plains and canyons. Like a lighthouse above a cold, dark sea, Mt. Taylor, named for President Zachary Taylor, has long been a beacon of hope for weary travellers, offering a change of scenery and food for the soul.
