Into the Canyons

I've been fortunate this past year to travel more than I ever have in my life. I have visited four different countries and have witnessed some of the most breathtaking landscapes on the planet. In spite of that, the one place in the entire world that I love most is in my own backyard. I have had a longing to return home and hike into the canyons. 

This was an adventure for Dave and I. We drove thirty miles on a rough dirt road to get to the trailhead. From there we could see snow-capped mountains in the distance beyond a daunting maze of canyons. 

We heaved our packs over our shoulders and meandered down Navajo slickrock and over sand and sagebrush. Our shadows became longer with each step and the glow off the canyon rim radiated a golden hue. 

After an hour and a half we made it to the willow and tamarisk-choked bottom. It was difficult to find a good place to cross the river where the bank wasn't a sudden drop-off. We found a cattle trail that sloped toward the water. We removed our boots and replaced them with water shoes. We rolled our pant legs up to our thighs, then with steady caution and using a walking sticks as a brace, we walked into the flow. 

The river was ice-cold this time of year. It was indeed November. The brown silty water rose to our knee caps as we hurriedly aimed for the other side. By now the sun had disappeared behind the cold Wingate cliffs that towered over the river. 

We found a good spot to camp next to a cliff with Indian petroglyphs and cowboy writings. The petroglyphs seemed to be a slightly different style than what I usually see in this area. 

We built a fire, which gave us not only warmth, but company. It was lonely down here, and that's how we preferred it. We spent three or four hours next to the fire. 

If we listened beyond the flames we could hear the rushing of the river and the occasional croak of a frog. At one time I fancied I could hear a distant sound of someone humming a song. Was it the sound of nature disguised as a human voice, or was it the call of a phantom? The slightly spooky atmosphere made it an ideal evening for stories of skinwalkers, water babies and Bigfoot. 

Using the beam of my flashlight I walked to the river to rinse off my water shoes. The hoarfrost on the leaves sparkled from the newly freezing temperatures. As I swished my shoes in the current, my fingers touched the water. By the time I returned to the fire, the tips of my fingers from the knuckle forward were completely numb. 

Noises of the night made it a little eerie. People had camped in this very spot for at least a thousand years, so who knew if ghosts were lingering. We knew we were alone. Probably no one else within twenty miles. 

A near full moon rose an hour after dusk. The fire was welcoming, but beyond that the chill was piercing. I could hear the music again. It sounded muffled. Dave heard it also. It seemed to come from around the bend. The sound was so faint that I couldn't tell if it was real or imagined. 

The night was long, but at last morning came. I stirred the ashes of the fire and found warm coals beneath. I added a pile of broken twigs and larger cottonwood branches. Within minutes it resurrected and once again flames were fluttering like ribbons. I stretched out my hands and warmed them over the heat. 

We ate breakfast and packed up camp. The sun was out now, but temperatures were still well below freezing. 

Here there were no easy trails. Only cattle trails occasionally used by humans. Willows and tamarisk grew thickly along the banks. At one point we had to remove our packs and hold them before us as we crawled on hands and knees over the meager trail, pushing through the sapling branches like running the gauntlet. 

Then we came to the river. There was no way around. The current came directly against the red cliff. Once again we donned our water shoes. 

We waded into frigid waters, not just crossing the width, but walking down-stream for fifty yards. The current tugged at our legs and we concentrated to stay standing. Now and again we stepped into a patch of soft mud below the surface and I always worried it was quicksand. By the time we emerged from the river our feet were nearly numb except for the painful sting in our toes. 

We then entered a narrow canyon that was a tributary to the river. Here there was no running water, but occasional mud and pools from recent rain. 

Here the fall colors flourished and vibrant yellow leaves ruffled in the breeze. Canyon walls led straight up and there was a dankness in the air. 

Nearly a mile up the canyon we came to a pool of water at the bottom of a drop-off. Above were two circular arches that led to the next level of the canyon. No doubt that during a rainstorm water would pour from one of these arches as if coming from a spout. 

We admired the beauty of the location. Secluded. Quiet. Our voices echoed off the cliffs. Trees with bright yellow leaves reflected in the pool of water. 

We returned to the river and continued around the bend. Here we found another wall with Indian petroglyphs mixed with a sprinkle of cowboy writings. The writings had been here a long time and a closer look revealed a layered canvas. 

The oldest layer was mostly faded, with etchings in the rock reaching much higher than a man can reach. These included the typical bighorn sheep, elk and other indistinguishable squiggly lines that are commonly found in Native American rock art. It's difficult to know whether these were made by the Fremont or Anasazi or some other unknown group. And as far as the date, that was pure speculation. 

Pecked over this older group of writing was a new, more distinguishable set of marks. Much of it was indigenous, which included a two-headed bighorn sheep and trapezoidal men with bug heads. Mixed with these were the cowboy drawings of horses, men, names and dates. The oldest was 1881, which was only two years after the Hole-in-the-Rock party traveled this way on their epic journey. 

In an ideal world we would have traveled another mile upriver to visit one of the main slot canyons. On a short November afternoon such as today, however, this wasn't feasible. The tamarisk was thick and we had to cross the river seven times just to exit the main canyon. 

We crossed the river for the final time and set our packs down near the cement foundation of an old building that was destroyed by arson over thirty years ago. Nearby stood wooden posts of what I assume was a corral. Once again there were a few etchings in the rock, one from 1932 and another of a cowboy brand. Around the corner we found more petroglyphs, these of bighorn sheep with either a line or trapezoid for bodies. I don't recall having seen that before. 

We removed our water shoes and rinsed out the mud while we let our feet dry. It felt good to put on dry socks. We hefted our packs and followed a side-canyon with a small stream of running water. The trail climbed the canyon wall and soon we stood above the rim where we followed the cairns back to the trailhead. Our shadows grew longer as we walked over the sand and past sagebrush. What a delight this world can be! ♠