I crossed the threshold into Chaco Canyon, having driven on the most primitive road I could imagine and onto one of the smoothest roads I've driven. The contrast shook me into the awareness that I had arrived. Whatever happened next, here I was. I'd made it, and the ancient land opened before me.
As I drove along, I noticed campers to my right and thought about how stunning it would be here at night. Far away from the lights of civilization and under starry skies similar to those our ancestors viewed. I smiled as I thought about whether this might be something to add to my list of someday.
The long road there turned into a ring road around the inside of the canyon, with a Visitors Center and trailhead parking areas that reminded me of spokes on a wheel. I stopped in at the Visitors Center to get the lay of the land, register for my hike, and talk to the rangers.
The first thing I learned was that it might be foolish for me to go on the hike I'd planned alone, especially so close to midday and into the afternoon. It was already 104 degrees and the temperatures were expected to continue to climb. As disappointed as I felt, I also left my options open. I registered. I spoke to the ranger about what to expect. We also talked about other petroglyph and pictograph hike possibilities that might be more suitable for a lone hiker.
Still, I'd come for this.
I left with trail maps and the power of information. I drove around the ring road a few times, slowly, to get my bearings, to see the larger view, and to check out the Supernova Pictograph Trail trailhead. I told myself that if there were other hikers on the trail, I'd attempt it. If not, I'd do two other hikes, one a climbing hike and the other a hike across the desert to the canyon wall to walk along the Petroglyph Trail. Both were shorter. Both gave me pictographs and petroglyphs. Whatever I chose would be challenging. Whatever I chose would be amazing.
There were few hikers on any of the trails that day. There were no hikers on the trail I'd come to hike, and with an estimated in and out time of four hours, I decided to hike my alternates. There was about a minute of regret, and then a sense of excitement and anticipation as I headed off to the first trailhead, a climbing trail that ended with what we might call a mural of pictographs that seemed to depict a magical or sacred figure whose hands swirled with energy and called the animals. They came.
The climb was challenging and invigorating, and there were a few points that I marveled over how easily it would be to fall and how no one would know I had fallen. In wilderness we are vulnerable. We also discover our power, as we use all our intelligences to navigate the terrain. We discover who we are and what we are made of, what support we have as we journey. When we can forge ahead and when to move more cautiously. The exhilaration of reaching a pinnacle and being in that moment with so much presence that we will never forget.
Pictographs and petroglyphs often are in sheltered spaces, but the light here was still so intense that even with good sunglasses and a hat it was hard to photograph the wall. Most of my photos caught the edge of things. Still, when I close my eyes, I can see the whole wall and the energy of movement in the story.
The climb down brought its own wonders as I took it slowly and stopped to look at the landscape from different height perspectives, and the other hike waited for me. I heard whispers of invitation on the air.
Creating Space: Three Months of Showing Up for What's Showing Up is a daily writing practice. Turns out that a lot of this writing explores the landscape of grief. My mother died shortly before I began this writing, and this is what I'm thinking about most of the time these days.
Katherine Cartwright has been blogging since 2012, and each year brings new wonders. She asks big questions of the small things in life.
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