I’ve gone to Chaco Canyon every year for most of 25 years. It’s my pilgrimage. This year was possibly the windiest (and that’s saying a lot). My journal may be a little less inspired than we’d like, but in it, you’ll read about my new friends and some old roads.
Read the journal (link to photos at the end) …
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Chaco Canyon Campground #5
It is 8:47pm. The wind has let up slightly from the unbelievable gale force that has been blowing since I left Albuquerque this morning at 11:47am. I’m sitting in the camper, relatively comfortable, albeit a bit cold.
The drive as far as Cuba was largely uneventful. I sang along with tunes, enjoying the drive. Cuba is about halfway between Albuquerque and Chaco. I stopped there for gas, fries and to send email to Merri via McD’s wireless. Pretty cool.
Out of Cuba, the wind blew much worse. Once I turned off the secondary road onto the dirt road into Chaco, the scene was like the Dust Bowl. Dust swirled over the road like vapor over ice. At times, the visibility was zero. It was only because I knew where to look that I could barely make out Fajada Butte through the dust.
I hoped that arriving midweek, at the end of April, on a horribly windy day, I would have an easier time finding a camping site than a year ago (in May), when I found the cg full. Indeed, the cg is not full today. As I passed #5, the one site with a small tree and a good view of Fajada Butte, I saw a man and woman sitting in camp chairs at the site. I drove around and came back to the next site. When I got out of the truck, the man gestured and called to me, “you should take this site, it’s the only one with shade.” “I thought you had it,” I replied as I walked over to pet their dog. “No, we’re just using the shade – we’re camped across the road.” With this, I met Ed, his dog Tripper, and Evelyn, Arizonans who are a part of a small group put together by Ed to visit Chaco for a few days after a stop in El Morro and before moving on to Mesa Verde. Tripper is a small but silent grey dog – a schnauzer? – who is 11 years old. A few months ago, Tripper was on death’s door with paralyzed hind quarters. Now he seems fairly mobile, though he is blind.
I spent most of the next 4 hours visiting with them, plus Bea and, eventually, Gene, who at that time was hiking to Wijiji. Merri will not believe how sociable I was. Eventually, I revealed that I am a frequent visitor to Chaco. I told them of my first visit, our honeymoon hike to Wijiji, and my 40th birthday party here, when my friends shaved my head in the group campground. They seemed to enjoy the many tales I had to tell and shared their own. I’m very grateful they called out to me to offer me this favored site, which they call my site.
Ironically, on the drive, I had been thinking about my normal anonymity in visiting Chaco. Now, these former strangers know as much about my connection to this place as my closest friends and readers of my blog.
Ed sports a small ponytail. He is a search and rescue veteran and, clearly, a devotee of southwestern ruins. We traded notes about various places, some we both know, some known just to one or the other of us. Evelyn may be newer to this game, but hiked this morning alone to Pueblo Alto, while the others hiked to Tsin Kletzin. They report that there are few wildflowers on either route. Bea may be even newer to this, but seems to be enjoying much of it, except for the horrible, horrible wind that is battering us all. The four of us laughed and chatted over beer/wine and snacks. Gene seems a little less integrated into the small group. I’m at least 10 years younger than the others.
Thursday, May 01, 2008
Rabbit, rabbit, rabbit.
At 4:47pm, I am back at #5 after driving about 60 miles today.
I woke up at 6:40am. It was 44 degrees and lighter than I expected. I had slept with half the windows open to keep the wind from blowing in the sides, as happened to me with our first camper 10 years ago on its first trip to Chaco. That time, I had to go home once the canvas tore loose from the roof.
As I lay there, I could hear Ed & company discussing a change in plans. The ceaseless wind had understandably taken its toll on them all. They were ready for escape. Rather than stay another full day and night, they decided to tour Pueblo Bonito with a ranger and head out around noon for a KOA (hot showers!) in Bloomfield, near their next stops at Salmon and Aztec. It’s good they decided to leave. Just in the brief time I sat with them over coffee, Bea’s cereal flew away and two of Ed’s eggs blew off the table.
They took their leave, knowing we were likely to meet again, particularly on their way out of the park to look for some petroglyphs they knew about from an expert.
I dawdled over yet another cuppa coffee before dropping the camper and heading out. After contemplating Fajada Butte and a little charging of my laptop, I ran into the group again at the VC, as they left for Bonito.
I walked into the VC and it was completely empty – not even staff. I’ve never seen it like that. At the register, I called, “anybody home?” Someone replied, “no,” as she came out of the office. This was Kelley, who proved to be great fun to talk with for a while. Kelley radiates that joy that comes from doing what you love in a place you love. We should all live so well.
I asked Kelley for directions to Ashishlepla and gave her tips on finding Guadalupe. I checked the bookstore for more material to add to my library shelf. Bought a teacher’s guide for Sofaer’s Chaco special (most might call it “Redford’s Chaco special”).
At Hungo Pavi, I decided to ‘map’ it with my GPS and to make a couple of very short movies panning over the ruins. Something new to do.
At the parking lot shared by Pueblo Bonito and Chetro Ketl, I saw the vehicles belonging to the Arizona group. I walked around Chetro Ketl, forgetting my GPS, but making a few movies. Back at the truck, I grabbed my GPS and quickly swept around Chetro Ketl. Once again back at the truck, I snacked on cheese and crackers. Ed returned to his truck – and Tripper – as the others walked the Petroglyph Trail between the two great houses. Evelyn returned next, then Bea and Gene. We headed off for the petroglyph search after a brief stop at the VC. We were unsuccessful in locating the panel of fluteplayers. (I saw a picture of them in the book by Ed’s expert.) At that point, we parted for the longer term.
But do they know I was behind them for a few miles on the way out? I had decided to go looking for Ashislepla. When searching, it may help to know just what you are looking for. (Truth be told, it may not help.) With GPS as my guide, I ventured onto some of the worst roads I’ve ever taken – barely roads at all in places. I needed Low-4 to get out of a sandy wash. I rocked and rolled and shuddered. At least I was out of the wind most of the time. Every time I opened the door or window, it was there and fierce. Eventually, I stumbled onto a better road (they all appear the same on the map).
I found Ashislepla Wash, which is reminiscent of Denazin, which may be just a few canyons farther northwest. Unlike the browns and greens of Chaco, this area is black and red and other-worldly. However, I thought I was looking for ruins. Though I did see some obviously buried ruins, I never saw anything above ground.
Four hours after I parted from the Arizonans, after 50 miles, I pulled into my site. Now for some coffee. I am exhausted and everything is dusty/gritty/sandy. At one point, I rubbed the corner of one eye and came away with a quarter teaspoon of grit. Ick.
Friday, May 02, 2008 – 9am
Damn. I went to bed early and got up late – just about 11 hours. I woke up a few times during the night. At 5:30am it was 28 degrees. In early light, a bird hopped across the roof making quite a racket.
So, yesterday, I made two attempts at new discoveries in the area, neither of which really panned out. Still, it was some fun (and a touch of ‘oh-oh’ on a backroad).
Last night, I started reading two books. House of Rain, by Craig Childs, is about exploring Anasazi country and research, starting in Chaco. Childs may write a touch too much like Indiana Jones, but he integrates facts and artifacts with the landscape in a very interesting way. (As I read the acknowledgements, I wondered if the Kelley he acknowledged was the one I met that day.)
The Mysterious Lands, by Ann Haymond Zwinger, could be by Barbara Kingsolver – the writing is that good. It is writing that is so good it makes me want to give up writing forever – much as Mary Oliver makes me renounce any claim to poetry. These three – counting Zwinger, not Childs – are word masters. I am left just as I would be with a box of paints – I don’t know what to do.
Great writers, writing about subjects I love, are like great chefs turning out a ten-course meal of unexperienced delights, all with a laugh and a glass a wine. I’m left silent, suddenly less proud of what I can do with a box of macaroni. Still, language nourishes me and I must feed myself as much and as well as I can.
I wonder how much about us is obvious to everyone around us, yet steadily ignored by us. It is said, no one is a greater mystery than to one’s self. It’s like living one’s whole life without any mirrors. Everyone knows the state of your teeth and skin while you haven’t a clue. Of course, this is really worse – there are mirrors everywhere and still one denies the reflections. Reading a bit of both books reminded me of something I just can’t seem to overcome: sloth. There is irony in sitting in my little box writing this as half the morning has passed me by. Time to move.
[Resuming Saturday morning, May 3, 2008]
And move I did. I broke camp and drove away, noting the absence of the large claret cup cactus that is usually in bloom this time of year. I hope it is simply delayed by lack of rain. I drove to the VC for the last time – this trip – though it did briefly crossed my mind there will be a last time of all someday all too soon.
I stopped at the VC long enough to fill two water bottles. With this source for drinking water and a reserve tank in the camper for coffee, I never touched the 5 gallon jug I brought with me.
Out of the VC, I turned south to the old road. I paused at the bridge over Chaco Wash to admire the surprising abundance of grasses among the cottonwoods and bushes boxed in this small canyon within a canyon. It is said that the Wash today is nothing like the Anasazi’s days. Over grazing since then led to increased erosion that cut a much deeper wash than they would have known. And yet, today, it was so park-like and idyllic. I think the ancient ones would have enjoyed it just as I do.
Fajada Butte loomed on my left as the road pivoted around it from a distance. Everything about the canyon calls to our imaginations across millennia, but the island Fajada within the intersection of canyons serves as a unique beacon, pulling us in from many miles away in any direction.
I was happy to leave the washboard road after just a few mile and head towards Tsin Klizhin. I had not intended to return to Tsin Klizhin this trip, having seen it eleven months ago. However, I realized that going this way would save me many miles in my intended visits to Kin Binneola and Kin Ya’a.
This is a terrible road, though I may have driven a few worse stretches just yesterday. Here, washboarding and dust aren’t the problem. One must be constantly vigilant to the irregular surface. At times, the road tips the truck. There are ruts galore and an occasional big rock. When I scan the surrounding land, boom, there’s my punishment for wavering attention. Go slow. I spoke out loud to myself, just as I had the day before in a sticky situation: “Take it easy. Easy.”
Throughout much of New Mexico, especially in the northwest corner, the land appears flat until a chasm opens up. Eventually, you realize the flat land is rent with channels that transform in a short distance from a little trough to a house-sized canyon.
Here, on this rough road, I don’t see many arroyos scarring the land. However, as I get near Tsin Klizhin, the land changes in subtle ways, growing only slightly more undulating. The road breaches an oddly shaped ridge, where I stopped to consider if this might be human-made. The great houses and great kivas were hardly the extent of Anasazi engineering: They shaped their land masterfully, often on a staggering scale, though more often here and there, where it made the most sense. They didn’t just catch rain, they made lakes.
Tsin Klizhin sits on a low ridge that nearly encircles a flat area that surely was farmland 1000 years ago. The last leg of the road in breaches a dam – no doubt, in this case – to enter these fallow fields over which Tsin Klizhin lords like a medieval castle, which, I suppose, it is. How far did the farm extend? All the way back to that earlier dam?
I toured Tsin Klizhin with its partial multi-story kiva. With the wind, it is so cold I wish I had my gloves on. No snakes today, nor flowers of any type. I had an apple for lunch in the truck.
Soon after Tsin Klizhin, I drove a stretch I had only driven once before about 5 years ago. Eventually, the road weaves through a sandy stretch I remember being much worse, then climbs above a tortured landscape like Denazin or Ashislepla, gray, red, black crenulations. I reach a point among many that I have been anticipating and laugh at memory’s deceit. It’s not that the intersecting road came after the sandy stretch instead of before, as I recalled, but that this road is really no better than the any other, while in my mind it seemed so much better that I considered taking it out of my way to bypass this little road of mine. No, I’ve already seen the worse. (For once, no irony loomed immediately ahead.) I stayed on my more direct course a little longer.
The narrow road into Kin Binneola is across the top of an earthen dam – modern, I believe. To one side of this dam, at this particular time, there is a modest pond. Not much, but the most water I’ve seen since the Rio Grande. I startled a hawk out of a treetop that is nearly level with the road, so I had a great view. If my eyes were a little sharper, I would have seen Kin Binneola from here, as well.
I parked at the trailhead and walked towards Kin Binneola (Navajo for “Where the Wind Whirls”). Kelley in Chaco had mentioned the stone used to construct KB is much darker than the stone used in Chaco Canyon. Indeed, it seems darker than any of the surrounding stone. She has observed the same stone used in distinct layers within Chaco – just a narrow band or course of darker rock at a particular height. That’s reminiscent of the green stone layer used in Aztec or the black cobblestones used in Wupatki. A decorative flourish ultimately hidden below plaster, rather like painting over a fresco.
KB is a great house near a cliff face. That seems typical. But this cliff face looks very different from Chaco, more like the badlands of Bisti/Denazin; shorter, more convoluted than the towering, angular cliff faces of Chaco. Each great house is unique. KB’s floor plan is a capital ‘E’, with the long stroke towards the canyon wall and the short strokes forming two plazas. I believe I read earlier that there was conjecture that these plazas segregated gender, clan or immigrant/native. (Where such an idea would come from, I cannot see.)
I stand at the open end of each plaza, scanning the remaining walls. No doubt, the flat land behind me was farmed extensively. KB is much larger than Tsin Klizhin or any of the other outliers I have visited. With the rear wall still intact enough to show aligned doors/windows, it is nearly as beautiful as Pueblo Bonito.
One of the rooms has a little corner chimney that I suspect was created in more recent times, as rough as it looks. The eastern outer wall sports a little ledge that in Chaco would be part of a balcony. Chetro Ketl’s long rear wall has one of these. With a breeze, even in the hottest days of summer, it might have been freezing under the shade of such a balcony. Where the eastern wall meets the long rear wall, this little ledge continues seamlessly around the corner – did the balcony?
As I drove away from KB, back onto the dam road, I saw a pair of water fowl in the little pond, each on one leg. I had my camera out just in time to catch baby birds flying in to join their parents. The adults barely moved while the half a dozen young frolicked (a cognate of the German word for happy). Later, Merri identified these as American avocets. Not an uncommon bird, but a pretty good find in the desert.
I rattled down the washboard road with one more outlier to visit: Kin Ya’a. I’m not sure how I found the access on my one prior visit to Kin Ya’a (Navajo for “Tall House”). There are no signs at all. This time, even with two GPS systems and 3 map programs, it was memory that got me there. (You take the good with the bad.) The maps did tell me of an alternate entrance, but that road lead straight into a compound of residences. I’m sure one is expected to drive through, but it seemed too much like trespassing, so I returned to the other access.
I suspect access to Kin Ya’a is intentionally obscure because it is so close to civilization.
One can drive beyond the gate, even up to Kin Ya’a, but I wouldn’t have the nerve. So, I walked, as I had the first time, only here, memory failed to remind me it was a two mile walk downhill. I leave the road and strike off straight towards the extant portion of the tower, which keeps disappearing as the land undulates. When it reappears, I correct course. All the while, I’m scouring the ground for snakes and flowers (none), as well as potshards. Nowhere have I seen as many potshards as on this route. I probably saw hundreds and my eye is not particularly keen.
The scant remnant of Kin Ya’a sits atop a huge heap of rubble, presumably from the lower stories. It is particularly sad in comparison to KB.
GPS leads me a bit more directly back, though progress is slow as I take countless pictures of shards. All the while I am wondering, why are there so many shards *uphill* from the ruin? Was the trash heap uphill? Has wind or flood carried the bits up the hill? Or ants? (I once saw an ant mound adorned with pottery bits.)
Near the top of the hill, I cross paths with several ponies. Back at the truck, I remove the two wool sweaters I’ve worn for 2 straight days, even hiking in full sun. The adventure is over; now for the drive home. The drive between Crownpoint and Thoreau (“Through” or “Threw” to New Mexicans) is through beautiful canyon country – different still from all the other canyons. After the crazy Interstate access in Thoreau, the trip is a straight shot home, with a stop in Grants, where I’m disappointed the McDonald’s is closed for remodeling. I fill up for $52, call Merri, and head home to Albuquerque. I’m there about 55 windy hours after I left, with 300+ pictures and movies and 6 pages of journal.