Sandia Peak to Petroglyph National Monument: Albuquerque's Mountain Treasures

At 63, I've learned that the most profound therapy often happens at altitude. Sandia Peak, rising 10,378 feet above sea level, offers both physical challenge and mental clarity that my years of clinical practice taught me to value deeply. I began my week taking the iconic Sandia Peak Tramway—the world's third-longest single-span aerial tramway—which carried me breathlessly above juniper-dotted canyons to the mountain's crest.

Rather than immediately hiking, I first sat on the observation deck, my compact binoculars revealing distant mesas and the Rio Grande's sinuous path. As a psychiatrist, I've observed how panoramic views physically alter our perspective—expanding our visual field often expands our mental one as well.

The following day, I tackled the La Luz Trail, a challenging 8-mile route that ascends 3,700 feet from the foothills to the summit. I packed my trekking poles, which have become essential companions for preserving my knees on steep descents. The trail winds through four distinct ecological zones, each transition marking not just biological change but an invitation to notice your own internal shifts.

For three consecutive days, I explored the network of trails that vein through the Sandias, each footfall a meditation. The Crest Trail (Trail 130) became my favorite—a gentle ridge walk with spectacular views that follows the spine of the mountains for about 8 miles. I found myself stopping frequently to journal, a practice I often recommend to my trauma patients.

I've noticed that mountain landscapes, with their combination of expansive vistas and intimate natural details, create what psychologists call a 'soft fascination' state—where attention is engaged without being depleted. My ultralight camp chair became my portable therapy office, allowing me to sit comfortably among ponderosa pines while documenting the subtle ways these mountains were working on my psyche.

Each evening, I returned to my modest Airbnb in the Nob Hill neighborhood, where I could process the day's experiences. The rhythm of ascending into the mountains by day and returning to urban comforts by night created a perfect balance—something I emphasize to my clients about balancing challenge with rest.

After my days in the Sandias, I turned my attention to Petroglyph National Monument, where volcanic escarpments hold over 24,000 carved images—some dating back 3,000 years. As someone who's spent decades studying how humans process and express trauma, I find these ancient communications deeply moving.

I chose to hike the Rinconada Canyon trail early one morning, my sun hat protecting me from the increasingly intense spring sun. The 2.2-mile loop took me twice as long as it might take others—not from physical limitation, but because I found myself pausing repeatedly to contemplate the symbols etched by Ancestral Pueblo peoples.

One petroglyph depicting a spiral particularly captivated me. In many therapeutic modalities, the spiral represents the journey of healing—not linear, but circling back while still moving forward. I sat on a volcanic rock, my travel sketchbook open, attempting to capture not just the image but the feeling of connection across centuries. What mental states prompted these ancient artists to carve their visions into stone? What anxieties or celebrations did they need to externalize?

My final days in Albuquerque were spent exploring the intersection of these mountain experiences. I arranged to meet with a local Pueblo elder who leads wellness walks through the foothills, combining traditional knowledge with contemporary mental health concepts—a professional curiosity I couldn't resist.

We walked slowly through the juniper-dotted landscape at the mountain's base, my daypack carrying water and lunch for our extended conversation. What struck me most was how many parallels existed between modern trauma-informed care and indigenous wellness practices: the emphasis on connection to place, the importance of community, and the healing power of narrative.

I've found that my backpacking journeys often yield insights I could never gain in my clinical practice. The elder explained how the Sandia Mountains are considered a place of balance—their eastern face catching the morning sun while the western face holds the day's final light. This concept of holding both beginning and ending, light and shadow, mirrors what we try to achieve in therapy: the integration of all parts of our experience.

That evening, I sat on the patio of a local restaurant in the Nob Hill neighborhood, sampling blue corn enchiladas while writing field notes in my journal. The mountains glowed pink in the distance—the phenomenon that gave the Sandias their Spanish name, meaning watermelon.