Ghost Ranch Rejuvenates NFPW Member
Learns about Rich Meaning of Life

Mary Jane Skala

By Mary Jane Skala

When I die, I hope I’m resurrected to Ghost Ranch, the rustic Presbyterian conference center in north central New Mexico where I spent eight months in 2010.

I first went to Ghost Ranch for a week in May 2008 with 20 people from a Cleveland Heights, Ohio, church. We climbed mountains, visited an old Spanish penitente, sipped hot tea with Muslims and walked two miles in silence to pray at the Sanctuario de Chimayo. It changed my life.

So when I accepted a buyout from Sun Newspapers in Cleveland after 20 years as editor in August 2009, I knew where I would go to rejuvenate.

I arrived at Ghost Ranch at dusk in mid-March, unpacked and headed to the dining hall. I didn’t know a soul, so I looked around, spotted Mike, and sat down. He became my first friend.

That night, we had nine inches of snow. The next morning, as I drove down the two-mile dirt road to breakfast, a horse wandered into the road and blocked my way. As I sat there staring at the horse, Mike drove up.

First he got out of his truck and coaxed the horse to move. Then he handed me a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon.

“I was worried that you were snowed in,” he said. Turns out he learned to handle animals when he worked for five years with Ringling Brothers circus lion tamer Gunther Gable Williams.

My life at Ghost Ranch was off and running.

Ghost Ranch was the home of artist Georgia O’Keeffe until ranch owner Arthur Pack gave all 22,000 acres to the Presbyterians nearly 60 years ago. O’Keeffe never forgave him. I did, every day.

I didn’t get paid at Ghost Ranch, but I got free room and board. My first six weeks, I was the mother figure at Casa del Sol, a historic old hacienda that hosted small retreats.

On May 1, I moved to the main part of the ranch on the alfalfa field and did registration and fundraising. I wrote the 2011 catalog. My office, and my house, faced the ranch’s big alfalfa field, surrounded by mesas and mountains.

Every week, about 300 guests of all ages came to paint or blacksmith or go birding or study photography, and hike and relax. I worked from 9 to 5:30 every day, with weekends off.

We had no TV. I reveled in life without it. We 20 or so volunteers ate every meal in the dining hall together and formed tight bonds. After dinner, we’d all hike or watch the sunset or sip wine around a campfire. Those people became the best friends I’ve ever had.

I met guests, too. The Catholic woman who’d converted to Islam. Native Americans. A Catholic priest from California, a San Francisco therapist, a black preacher, a gifted rabbi, a grieving 80-year-old widower, marathon runners and dozens of others, from all over the world.

On Sundays, I drove an hour out a twisting 17-mile dirt road to the humble, Monastery of Christ in the Desert for Mass. A tiny, glassy sanctuary immersed in towering red rocks, it seated just 18 people. It was quiet and holy and unforgettable.

I lived every minute of those eight months. On weekends, my friends and I would hit the road. We camped at 11,500 feet in Colorado. We hiked at Chaco Canyon in New Mexico, explored dusty Bluff, Utah, and visited nearby Indian pueblos.

Back at Ghost Ranch, we were 30 minutes from the nearest gas station and convenience store, and 45 minutes from Border’s and restaurants. Frankly, I forgot about them. Ghost Ranch taught me that it’s people, not TV or work or computers, who give life its rich meaning.

I left in late October for a job in Flagstaff, but I left my heart at Ghost Ranch. I hope it stays there forever.