Lovey and Moki Mounds

At 3:00 last night I was awakened by the persistent bark of our black schnauzer, Lovey. Worried that she was waking the neighborhood, I walked outside to calm her down. As soon as I stepped out the front door, the overwhelming stench of skunk consumed the air. I now knew why she was barking.

Lovey has been a lonely pooch ever since her mother, Moqui, passed away. She gets anxious anytime we leave the home. Her temporary dog house is cordoned off with a small fence, and any time we leave her alone, she makes a high-pitched howling whine. 

I decided that I would spend a little one-on-one time with her this morning. I put her on a leash and we walked down the hill, then slipped through a barbed-wire fence into the field. Here I removed the leash. 

Lovey was excited to be free, criss-crossing from one side to another, exploring and sniffing any nook she could find. She kept her head down as she roamed and never noticed the horses at the far end of the field. 

As we walked I observed the prints on the dirt between the clumps of wild grass. Recently a coyote had wandered across the field. I also noticed two sets of deer prints, that of a doe and very a small fawn. Bigger than them all were the indention of horse hooves. 

After crossing the field we entered a stand of juniper trees, then came to the rim of a small canyon. I worried about Lovey stepping onto cactus, but she didn't. 

I slid down a five-foot ledge. Lovey recoiled when she saw the drop-off, scared of the jump down. But I lifted her into my arms and quickly she was down into the grass and sticks. 

Although Lovey didn't know this, I was taking her to one of my old haunts. As a kid I came here with my brother and we explored the canyon. A stream runs down the middle and we once dug a fork in the stream so that the water flowed on both sides, creating an island. We set up our tent and camped on the island. 

Just a few seconds later and we were at the stream-side. We found the rock and cottonwood tree that once sat inside our tiny island. But now the water no longer flowed on two sides. Nature had reclaimed our little project and the stream only flowed on its original route. 

We pushed through a tangle of reeds and cottonwood trees. Just a little ways up the stream we found a very small waterfall pouring off the moss and logs. Lovey stopped to lap a mouthful of water. 

We climbed up the hill that led to the rim of the canyon. Beneath the lip of the rim is an old Anasazi ruin. About half of the circular-shaped stone structure still survives, looking almost exactly as it did centuries earlier. Inside the cave are foundations of other rooms, but the walls have long since tumbled. Lovey headed to the deepest part of the alcove and sniffed intensely. 

This was a good spot for the Anasazi to live. The stream provided fresh water, the cave protection, and the flats above furnished space to grow crops. 

To exit the canyon I had to climb out and lift Lovey up two different ledges. 

We now walked through the juniper trees. My intent was to walk toward the field and return the way we came. But then I saw the moki mound. 

These small hills of dirt and rocks are likely locations of former dwellings of the Anasazi. At one time these ancient people built land structures just like the ruin we had found earlier. It is possible that they might have occupied and abandoned the same habitations several different times. 

Over the centuries the stone walls tumble to the earth and dirt blows over the structure, essentially burying it. Plants and even trees begin to grow over it, creating a camouflage. A freezing and thawing cycle, over many years, can cause artifacts to be pushed to the surface. 

An array of pottery laid scattered around the mound. I searched and found several interesting sherds. Some were painted in black and white design. Others were textured with various patterns, likely shaped with their fingers. Some pieces contained no decoration at all. But all were made with fine workmanship, being smooth and sturdy. 

As my eyes scanned the ground, I heard a rustling in the trees. I looked up and beheld a roan horse just 25 yards away. She seemed not to care that we were here. Her soft peachy mane fell over her back. 

Lovey and I both stared at her. I was worried that she would start barking and scare the horse away. But she didn't. All three of us just stood and stared. This was our experience, one that I, at least, will never forget. ♠

 

Camping, the Old Fashion Way

I am saddened when I go on the mountain and see so many people spending the night in a camp trailer or fifth wheel. Whatever happened to the olden days when one slept in a tent, or even better, under the stars? I understand that a trailer has more conveniences such as a toilet, kitchen sink, table, generator, color television, soft bed. Most people don't even build a fire anymore. They just cook on a propane stove. Why not just stay home in the first place? In a camp trailer, you are oblivious to the sound, smell, and touch of the outdoor senses.

Some of my fondest memories come from camping beneath the stars. While in high school, the night before the archery hunt, my friend and I drove in his old black pickup truck to the top of Blue Mountain near the skyline trail at about 10,000 feet in elevation. We had no tent, nor any camp trailer, but instead, we rolled out sleeping bags into the bed of his truck and watched the innumerable stars that painted the sky. It was the most stars I had ever seen in my life. I don't know if it was because we were so high in elevation, or because we were so far away from any other dimming source, but there were millions upon millions. No clouds obstructed our view. Swarms of illuminated pin holes from east to west and north to south, not only above us, but also below us as we sat parked high upon a mountain slope. Flanking our sides were silhouettes of the coniferous forest, its pungent scent still fresh in the crisp air.

Nighttime is filled with many sounds. That of a cricket or cicada can be very nostalgic. The quivering of aspen leaves when the breeze picks up or the rumbling water of a gurgling stream are very soothing. Popping and crackling of the final embers before they die out always rouse me from my sleep to glance at the fire pit, but I always return to close my eyes, relishing the moment that is all mine at the moment.

My favorite sounds, however, come from animals who roam the outskirts of our campsite. This is always a bonus to any nighttime experience. A pack of coyotes howling on the hillside are enough to keep one awake, hoping that they will not come down and ransack the camp.

During the rut, when I go on the mountain to get pictures of elk, I particularly enjoy sleeping in the back of my truck and listening to the bugles that come during the night. Usually, two bulls will be roaring back and forth as they wander through the trees. I get excited when one of them gets relatively close to the truck, probably completely oblivious to my existence. I pop my head up, squint through the darkness, scan for anything that could be an elk, usually not see anything, but still be happy that one is so close.

I remember one night as a youngster, my brother and I camped out at Westwater. The creek is only a couple feet wide.  Walt and I created an artificial island in one section so that the stream forked right around our fire and little camping area, and then coalesced back into one body of water. It was in this place that we slept under the stars, the stream roiling just feet away from our ears, the embers of the fire burning down, and leaves on the cottonwood trees flapping lightly. Something stirred that caused me to sit upright in my sleeping bag. There, about a sticks-throw away, in the willows were two red eyes. They glared at me as I stared at them. I listened intently for any movement, but heard none, and soon the glowing oculi faded into the night. ♠