At What's Left Of Mohawk Station, Even The Ghosts Are At Rest. By Kevin Franklin A MORE PERFECT moment I cannot imagine. The early morning light is fading from purple to orange as the sun begins to rise. From my vantage point in a wash of clean, white, granite sand at the foot of the Mohawk Mountains, I can see across the San Cristobal Valley to the east. Brittle bush sprouting golden flowers line the wash and a grove of lush ironwood trees surround me. A distant wren is greeting the sunrise. I have a sense of absolute peace. However, if I could turn the clock back 122 years, this place