Chaco Canyon – Mystical and Cold

Horned Larks scattered as we made our way along NM 46 and later County Road 7050 on our way into Chaco Canyon. Before long the pavement ended abruptly and we prepared ourselves for what we thought would be 20 miles of bouncing. We were pleasantly surprised to find the road had been graded level, and despite recent rains, there was no evidence of ruts.

It had been five years since I visited Chaco Culture National Historical Park on a University of New Mexico Continuing Education Story of New Mexico trip. I had been fascinated by the information presented by a long-time park ranger on the area’s history as we toured Pueblo Bonito. In addition, I had been amazed by the area’s natural history and was frustrated by the limited amount of time we had to explore the area. Staying in the campground and waking up in this mystical place became a future goal.

“October should be the perfect time,” my friend Donna stated early in the summer when we discovered our mutual desire to camp at Chaco.

We pulled into the Gallo Campground shortly before noon. It was a Monday and few spaces were occupied. We picked a spot that backed up to a small ruin – and close to the restroom. The restroom was being upgraded; two pink and two blue portable restrooms stood nearby – along with a portable sink.

We spent the afternoon walking out to the Wiiji Pueblo ruins. The trail, like a dirt road, meandered along the base of a sandstone mesa. A pair of ravens seemed to dance in the air as they flew acrobatic maneuvers over our head. We could hear the sound of their wing beats as they spiraled around each other.

Wiiji Pueblo ruin

Unlike some of the other pueblos, Wiiji is thought to have been built all at once and has a uniform style of masonry. “I could never lay rock that straight,” Donna commented.

The timbers used for roof beams and door frames came from mountains over 50 miles away and were carried by man-power, rather than carts or animals. Carbon dating of these timbers has helped archaeologists establish the time periods of construction. What might appear like vent holes, also served as calendars – the rays of the sun coming through them marked the passage of time.

Shell fossil

A short ways beyond the pueblo was a cliff with both petroglyphs (etched into the sandstone) and pictographs (painted pictures).

“Oh, look,” I called to Donna. “This rock beside the trail has a fossilized shell embedded on the top.”

The sun was getting low when we returned to the campground from the 3.5 mile walk. There was still time to explore the various small ruins tucked under the cliff behind the camp sites. The air was turning chilly. As I stood under the rock overhang to stay out of the wind, warmth radiated off the rocks.

“The Chacoans that built here, knew what they were doing,” Donna commented. The cliffs across the canyon seemed to glow in the fading sun.

As we fixed dinner snug in the camper, I peeked behind the insulated window covering to see if there was going to be a sunset.

“Will you watch the dinner while I go out and take some photos?” I asked.

A few campsites away, a couple was huddled around a campfire. It looked as though they were going to sleep in the back of their truck. Beyond them, the cliff was a black silhouette against the scarlet sky.

As we were about ready to get ready to make up our beds, the camper lights began to falter, and then the CO2 alarm started beeping.

“Oh, oh,” Donna gasped. “I think the camper battery is going.” We had just turned on the heater to take the chill of the increasingly cold night. “I am so sorry, but this is the end of our lights and heat.”

“Since my sleeping bag is rated for 32 degrees, I should be OK,” I replied, remembering that the campground host alerted us that the temperature was supposed to drop to freezing that night.

I felt snuggly warm once I slid into my sleeping bag and pulled my fleece hat down over my ears. My comfort was short-lived. Every time I thought I had the bag tucked around my shoulders, it would gape a little and I would start to feel a chill.

I slept – or dozed – rather lightly, waking up often when my shoulders got cold. I kept thinking about the two ravens Donna had spotted in a cleft near our campsite. They were nestled up next to the rock cliff to take advantage of the warmth. Even with the radiant heat from the cliff and the ability to fluff up their feathers to form a protective layer, it had to be a cold night for them. I longed to lean against something that would emanate warmth.

I had to make my first trip to the pink potty around 1 a.m. “Did you look up at the stars?” Donna asked when we returned.

“No, I just trudged along,” I grumbled.

By 5 a.m. when nature called again, I had slept very little. While I headed out again, Donna unearthed a mummy bag and stuffed it inside my sleeping bag. This time I attempted to look up at the stars, but the steam from my exhalation in the near-freezing air clouded my view.

Back in my double bags, I was finally warm and able to sleep for what remained of the night.

We were awakened in the morning by the pitter patter of a Canyon Towhee as it trotted across the roof of the camper. Light clouds covered the sky, hinting of the winter storm that was expected that night. I discovered ice in the top of my water bottle I had left in the cab of the truck.

Fahada Butte

After breaking camp we headed out to explore a different part of the park. Our first stop was the Fahada Butte Overlook. The Chacoans recognized the significance of this geological anomaly that is oriented in an almost perfect north-south, east-west axis, and used it as a sun shrine, a place of worship, and astronomical observatory.

We hoped to hike the Pueblo Alto Trail that heads up the cliff behind Pueblo del Arroyo to the northern mesa. “It passes through a cleft in the rock face,” the ranger at the Visitor Center told us.

As we approached the bottom of the trail, we spotted two people heading down. After watching their descent, I began to have my doubts about whether I could scramble over the rocks, but didn’t want to give up without trying.

“Coming down is the worst. I can tell as I head up whether it will be too steep for the return trip. Let’s try and see how far we can get,” I stated.

The trail immediately involved maneuvering over big boulders; however, even larger rocks on either side of the trail provided leverage. I slowly picked my way up the trail – Donna in front of me in case I decided I needed a hand. All went well until we got to a point where the ‘trail’ went across an almost vertical rock-face with nothing to hold onto. It would mean descending on my rear end, but there would be nothing for me to use to ease myself onto the rock.

This is as far as I can go

“This is as far as I can go.” I stated.

Donna went a short ways further so she could see where the trail passed through the cleft.

Even though I didn’t make it to the top, it felt like a major victory to have scrambled that far.

We walked further down the main trail past Kin Kletso and finally turned around at Casa Chiquita.

Chacoan Stairway

As we drove back along the loop that follows the South Mesa, we stopped to look at one of the 20 foot-wide Chacoan stairways that provided a way for travelers from the south to descend into the canyon.

We headed out of the canyon pondering the mysteries of the site that had been the center of Pueblo culture between 850 and 1250 AD – and then seemed to have been abandoned.

A Pilgrimage Through My Childhood

I turned right on Cedar St and headed up the hill with some apprehension. Santa Monica had changed so much. Older houses are gradually being torn down and replaced with McMansions. Would my childhood home still be there? I crossed 10th St. and let out a sigh of relief. Not only was the home my parents built almost 70 years ago still standing, it was well cared for. The house across the street was not so lucky; it was gone and a 3-story ultra-modern house stood in its place.

Will Rogers Elementary

I headed up the street to see the fate of Will Rogers Elementary, which opened when I was in the 3rd grade. It was still a bustling hub of the neighborhood. The neighborhood demographics had changed. In the 40’s the majority of the residents in our neighborhood were senior citizens. It now hummed with the energy of families with children.

This pilgrimage to my childhood started last winter when I registered with Facebook. I filled in the requisite information, including the name of my high school and year I graduated. As I explored the web site’s possibilities, I discovered that if I clicked on San Bernardino High School ‘59 it took me to a page which listed others who had graduated in my class. I started scrolling through the names and photos, racking my brain to remember who they were. This led me to dig through my shelf of memorabilia and pull out the annual from my senior year and my high school scrapbook.

When I moved from San Bernardino to the Seattle area in the early 70’s, I lost track of my best friends from high school. Before the Internet, keeping in touch involved writing letters, which was hard for a busy, working mother to do. Over the years I have felt guilty about not making more of an effort, and was disappointed not to find those friends among the profiles on Facebook.

As the spring progressed, I realized that I had graduated 50 years ago and that there probably would be a 50th reunion. Of course, no one knew where I was or that my name had changed again, so I had to seek out information. A search on the Internet led me to the web site of the company that was putting on the reunion and told me how to register to receive information. I sent them my address and soon received a notice. I still wasn’t sure whether I would attend; I had not attended any other reunions.

My high school annual now sat next to my computer. I started checking the Facebook link to San Bernardino ‘59 graduates weekly to see who was new and hoping that the upcoming 50th reunion would spur others to connect. I became more and more curious about the lives of my high school friends.

“You should join Classmates.com,” my sister told me. I had done that when it first launched and hadn’t connected with any friends; the chatter seemed frivolous. I started to protest.

“Since I am a member, let’s log onto your class and see if you recognize any names,” she continued. We started scrolling through the names – and there were the friends I was looking for! One had entered information about herself. She was now living in Las Vegas. So, I went home, registered, and wrote her using my one free message.

Within 24 hours she had responded and we shared e-mail addresses. She had stayed in contact with two others and I began to reconnect. One was on Facebook, but somehow the high school link was faulty. Now I started getting excited about attending the reunion.

I contacted three friends from college with whom I stay in regular contact. “When are your reunions?” I asked in an e-mail to them, since we all grew up in Southern California. Two of them had reunions the week before mine and would be in CA.

University of Redlands friends

After spending a long weekend with BJ, Cori and Lilli in Encino, I took the light rail to Long Beach where one of my college friends had just moved. Our friendship also spanned 50 years. Three of us had been squeezed into a 2-person room our freshman year in college – and not only survived, but remained friends. The four of us went through different configurations of roommate combinations, depending on who was taking advantage of the University of Redland’s semester/year abroad options. It was delightful to have our own mini-reunion.

And then it was time to drive out to San Bernardino to re-explore the area after a 36 year absence and attend my reunion. The day prior to the reunion was spent birding in the San Bernardino Mountains. I stopped in the town of Running Springs where my family had escaped the heat of the valley at a swim club. I was trying to find a memento and wandered into a curio shop. The owner, who had lived in the town her entire life, perked up when she found out the purpose of my visit and began to drag out old photos of the town. “Do you remember a girl who rode a motorcycle to the club in her bathing suit?” she inquired. “The club is gone now,” she continued. “The property is now a parking lot for a church.”

“We are going to be gathering for a pre-reunion happy hour in our motel,” Leslie told me when I called her at 4:00 later that afternoon. “They let me post a sign in the lobby.”

I headed over there at 5:00. “Aren’t you Judy?” a man called from the other end of the hallway as I headed towards the elevator.

I recognized his face from Classmates, but couldn’t place his name. It would be like this all evening. It was a person’s smile or gestures that sparked recognition.

It was wonderful re-connecting with Suzy and Leslie. After kibitzing for half an hour, we drove over to the Arrowhead Country Club. “I’ve been taking Tums all day,” Suzy admitted as we made our way to the reunion. I also experienced alternating excited anticipation and anxiety off and on all day.

HS friends

The room was dim when we arrived and was filled with wall-to-wall people talking excitedly. We eased our way into the crowd and over the loud belting of hits from the 50’s, we began to greet our former classmates. The majority of people who attended (about 100, including many spouses, out of a class of almost 650) had remained in the general area. Many not only had several grandchildren, but also great-grandchildren! Several had lost their spouses.

“Are you still involved with algae?” a former classmate inquired. I was surprised that she remembered my senior science project on the potential use of algae as food. “I thought that maybe you were part of the progress that is being made to use algae as bio-fuel and had hit the big time.” My only involvement with algae, of course, is to continually scoop it out of my pond.

“You always were taller than I was,” a man said as he sidled up to me while we were mingling after our chicken dinner.

“Didn’t you live in the flat-roofed house at the end of Mt. View?” a woman asked.

“Yes,” I replied. “I drove by it yesterday and it broke my heart, it looked so neglected.”

San Bernardino High School

“Have you driven by the school?” someone asked. The old administration building is gone; they built a new one.”

A man grabbed the microphone from the DJ and asked, “Who is no longer with us?” Name after name was mentioned. It was sobering.

“Everyone who went to Wilson Elementary, gather for a picture,” the DJ announced. A number of people congregated for the photo, realizing that they had known each other for 60 plus years.

I gathered with the group photo of those who attended Arrowview Junior High.

And then it was time to leave. We said our good-byes and slipped out into the quiet evening air. “I’m glad I came, but I am glad it is over,” I stated. We all agreed.

The next day, after attending services at my old church, I headed back to Los Angeles. As I sped along the freeway, I pondered the experiences of the past few days. Many things had endured, yet other things had changed. In some ways fifty years seems like yesterday; in others, it feels like eons have passed.

A friend summed it up, “Isn’t it amazing that we are still who we were then, and yet different.”