Beef Basin and the Anasazi

In June the grass grows tall and straight in Beef Basin. It rises from the red clay and the white sand and on strong heads and bares its fruit; lush and green in great waves it bows to the wind as it has for thousands of years. For a brief time it is lord over the sage and king of all that it surveys. But soon the heat will topple its throne, bake its temple as with fire, and then, the wind will only find dust.

The Basin, this improbable place, this enigma, this island, lies wide in the mist of chaos. To the north, hard up against the valley sit the Needles - Ceder Mesa Sandstone worn into knotted canyons, jumbles of small ravines and pinnacles, and vertically walled narrow valleys. To the west lies Gypsum Canyon. Deep and rugged its jagged edge cuts the valley and spews its collected hate into the Colorado - always the lowest elevation in the area and fixed at the confluence of Gypsum and the Colorado at 3,700 ft. To the south-east the Abajo's cut the sky. The highest peak within the range is Abajo Peak at 11,360 ft (3,463 m). These steeply sided peaks covered with impenetrable deep bush, Gambel oak, and Ponderosa Pine are igneous intrusions laid down about 25 million years ago and thus are younger than the surrounding and lower mesas. Much of the water in the south part of the valley derives its source from the flanks of the most westerly peaks. To the south Dark Canyon cuts a ragged swath leading again to the Colorado. The moat complete, the valley rests in its peaceful solitude. I have never seen another soul in Beef Basin. It is visited, but not often.

Beef Basin is an archaeologically rich area. (See The Shell Bead) Although many of the ruins are widely known long explorations in the canyons and washes produce wondrous finds, but be prepared for rough country, climbing, and a little suffering. The ruins range from the open Hovenweep style (albeit with different masonry) of the "The Farm House Ruin" to high cliff dwellings; some extremely hard to find and get up into the ledge systems. The "Farm" complex is quite interesting and connected, I think, to other similar ruins in the valley. At some point in time the valley had a significant population. Interestingly, the farm complex is absent water today, whereas the other similar ruins are all tied to water. I suspect these ruins were abandoned in the drought from 1276 to 1299, but many have held up quite well. Some of the more remote ruins seem newer and still tied to the water that flows there today.

Beef Basin can best be accessed from the north and east with a normal 4x4 from Beef Basin Road, which leaves the pavement at Indian Creek, or from the south and west, on North Cottonwood Road just west of Blandings. From the pavement it is a committing drive either way.

One could easily spend two-weeks wondering among the mesas and canyons and only through several trips there have I truly appreciated its rugged beauty, its uncompromising remoteness, and unusual character of its location.

The Desert and the Anasazi - Lavender Canyon

The cliffs and mesas on the Colorado Plateau are a unique place with unique qualities. The red walls peel away memory – the memory of other places, of other times, and even the memory of self until all that is left is this space – this red cathedral and the thousands of years it whispers of in a thundering, but empty and still crescendo. The cliffs rise as memories fade.

Although I have not wandered in these canyons for almost a year, the intervening time is stolen – filtered in the sands - lost. That year fades like a single drop of sweat on hot Navajo Sandstone until even the feeling of memory is lost. Now, this place, this time is all I have; all I know; and all I desire - a jealous lover whose beauty bares no wayward glance and whose caress steals the heart – forever. It is also best to pay attention to this lover in the heat of summer or she will have her vengeance.


I have journeyed here again to find the anasazi, to wander in the beauty of the desert, and to lose myself; to let sun bleach my soul, to filter it through the hot sand and to have the ancients return it to me cleansed and clear. They have walked here until decades are measured in moments — they know the paths, the secret places, and the beginning and end of a footstep and the sum of a life. Perhaps the solitude here is part of the revelation - the serenity drives a kind of relentless introspection.

I lean heavy against the red escarpment as if to push it away like great Atlas or Hercules - palms outstretched, fingers pointed toward the sky, back bent, head bowed. The moments slip and I think about these things. The week lies ahead. Eventually, I pull away and stand erect. The moisture of my palm prints, much like the painted palm prints of the Anasazi, traces the outlines my hand. Another journey begins -discovery in many forms awaits.



Lavender Canyon lies between Bridger Jack Mesa and Salt Creek Canyon on the south side of Canyonlands National Park. I wished to explore the upper and deeper part of the canyon because of its proximity to Salt Creek Canyon. Tammi and I had been backpacking down Salt Creek a couple of years back and were surprised by the number of ruins and gliffs. Salt Creek has the largest ruin outside of Mesa Verde (Big Ruin) and is home to such famous pictographs as All American Man and the Four Faces.

Lavender Canyon was named after David Lavender. Twice nominated for a Pulitzer prize this rancher and all-around western man; who was mostly a hard scrabble cowboy, put his mark on western history and literature. Near Durango, as a young man, he worked a silver mine and on his stepfather's cattle ranch as a cowboy, helping with all the work until a drought and the Depression forced the ranch's closure. Near to my heart he was also an avid mountaineer. Among other things, he was a Princeton grad. He later became a dedicated conservationist. He realized the west he knew was dying and the result of this realization was his most well-read book which was published in 1943, "One Man's West". The book is in reprint by Bison Books and out in a new edition with notes and added material by David Lavender's son, David G. Lavender.

Armed with a permit you can drive into Lavender Canyon from Canyonlands, but that approach is best for uninitiated and untested. It is best approached from the most south-southwestern side of Bridger Jack Mesa. The 4x4 road that leads north around the west side of Bridger Jack makes for an easy passage, but it is a bit narrow. I don't know the name of the Mesa the road sits on (it is unnamed on the topo), but the camping on the Mesa is fine. Let's call it Little Bridger Jack Mesa. The mesa burned quite some time ago, so the top is mostly grass and offers easy going. I found the reason for the fire on the way back up. There is an old uranium mine just off the cliff on the southwest corner. It looks like the miner's camp was the source of the fire.

The way down off Little Bridger Jack is hard and the way up even harder, but it does make a good day's walk. You can also get down Dry Fork Canyon - I walked around to look off the side and the way is quite easy. The north end of Little Bridger Jack looks passable on the topo, but the lower wall can not be breached without a rope.

Lavender Canyon is deep and the walls consistently vertical. The first picture shows the central part of the canyon - about 1000 foot from the mesa top to the creek at the bottom. There are ruins in the canyon and some looking around will reward a good search; however, the wild parts of the canyon are pristine and the wildflowers were wonderful - Shooting Star, Pestemon, Desert Indian Paintbrush, coreopsis, and plenty of blooming cactus.

In a side canyon I found fresh cougar track, the rear paw measuring just over 4" wide. He was a big boy and I was weary coming back at dusk that evening. A few deer tracks and a bit of water gave up the reason for his night's vigil. (I've looked at this picture a few times and sometimes get the illusion that the print is "pushed up", not in to the soil - if you get that look again) There were few signs of the usual leftovers of Anasazi habitation in the canyon itself. Although the Anasazi did live here I suspect the times were shorter and the water and game scarcer. I saw no gliffs except at the ruins; however, there are more than likely some around. The wall are generally dead vertical too - there simply aren't many building sites.



As soon as I got near the lower parts of the canyons the deer flies began to attack in hordes. I nearly went crazy slapping and swatting and Deet didn't make any difference whatsoever. I eventually put on pants and the incessant biting stopped - the horde just swarmed my legs. I seldom wear pants in the desert, but from now on in June I think I will always wear them. The gnats and no-see-ems were no fun either. I'm still itching a week later.

Besides the canyon itself there is another reason to visit; Cleft Arch. Cleft arch is a graceful and massive arch, thick and even, wide and tall. It juts into the the canyon and demands a visit. I approached it from the south and begin to friction the lower steep slaps and faced climbed the remainder. It can be free climbed, but it took me some time to work it out and I am a fairly experienced climber (the face: friction -5.9, face - 5.7/8). I recommend the northern side as it provides only a steep walk. Begin up thru the narrow slot when you first see the northern side of the arch. Of interest is the arch itself - its name becomes apparent once inside. It is now actually two arches joined together by a narrow, but very deep cleft no more than 1/2" wide. Lying on the hot sand blue sky is visible thru the vertical shaft, which must be 30 or more feet thick.


I walked and explored throughout the day and in the afternoon periodically sought some shade as I began to overheat. The canyon become hotter and the little thermometer on my pack strap soon slipped to 110 degrees. The afternoon, the sand, the ceders, the cactus, and the terrain turned against me. I had gone too far, climbed too much and still had much of the mesa to ascend to get to camp. I ran out of water and I had started with 200 oz - more than 1-1/2 gal. The setting sun gave me respite from the heat and I struggled slowly up the last 700 foot of Little Bridger Jack Mesa, through the cliff bands, and made my way toward camp. I had suffered a good bit in the end, but the day was worth the effort. The thirteen-hour exploration had left its mark and tomorrow I would drive to Beef Basin. Here's how David Lavender said it:

"Fortunately God gave man a poor memory for physical discomfort. The active ingredients which made the hurt so brutal at the moment lose their keen edge in retrospect: we are able to look back on them with certain detachment and even make them subject matter of our dearest conversation pieces."

These canyons don't yield their beauty easily - especially in late June and the home of the Anasazi is seldom hospitable. Discovery is never easy - any kind of discovery.

Correction! I had read that Lavender Canyon was named for David Lavender, but according to a much better source, David G. Lavender (the writers grandson), Lavender Canyon is named for Ed Lavender (David Lavender's step-father). Apparently, Ed used to drive cattle he bought from Ed Scorup ( the then owner of the Dugout Ranch on Indian Creek now just outside Canyonlands National Park). See page 328 of the new edition of "One Man's West". Anyway, I'll keep the post - surely Ed would approve of his son's fame.

Comb Ridge - Post Six, recent and recomended

If you're interested in Comb Ridge this book; Sandstone Spine, by David Roberts is a good introduction. This is the book that led me to Comb Ridge. It is the story of Climber David Roberts, climber and writer Greg Child, and wilderness guide Vaughn Hadenfeldt's backpacking trip along the spine. It has much about the Anasazi, but the narrative isn't terribly exciting and they fail on describing both the natural history and the history of the place. All in all a good read.

For some really great prose and desert wonder I recommend House of Rain: Tracking a Vanished Civilization Across the American Southwest by Craig Childs. This man knows the desert and is an excellent writer. I admire his style and knowledge.

Through his studies of the land and its history, seeking out of oral tradition and hundreds of miles of walking the landscape in search of clues, Craig Childs has turned his considerable talents for reading the landscape and turning his observations into wonderful prose towards the mystery of what happened to the Anasazi of 800 to 1000 years ago. Childs uses his travels, his inquisitiveness and imagination to write a plausible history of the Anasazi... tracing their exodus from Chaco and the Colorado Plateau south into Mexico. An academic could never leap to the conclusions that Childs postulates, however most archaeological papers don't touch the soul. Child's book does. He has crisscrossed the desert southwest to find out how this ancient civilization converged on places like Chaco Canyon and Mesa Verde, where its culture thrived and flourished, and why these hubs of civilization dried up and its people seemingly scattered into the wind.

One of his other great books is The Secret Knowledge of Water. In a poetic account he brings the sand to life in these pages. His writing on pockets and tinajas is especially good. Childs shares beauty, science, historical anecdote and research in a nice balance and with extremely good writing.

For reading about the Anasazi a good primer is The Mesa Verde World: Explorations in Ancestral Puebloan Archeology edited by David Grant Noble. Key topics include farming, settlement, sacred landscapes, cosmology and astronomy, rock art, warfare, migration, and contemporary Pueblo perspectives. Winston Hurst, an archaeologist who has been most kind to me, has a chapter about sacred Landscapes.

Winston said this: "Sacredness is not implicit in the landscape. Rather, it is a purely subjective property that exists on in the eye or heart of the beholder." I find a lot of that. I hope you enjoyed the Comb Ridge series and have a real sense of the place.

Comb Ridge - Post Five, Butler Wash

Butler Wash parallels Comb Wash like two wild-eyed stallions bent on some distant finish line; neither fast enough to pass the other. Nostrils flared, both rush toward the San Juan River to the south. They are about a half-mile apart, but a world away - Comb Ridge separates them.

Butler Wash seems hotter and dryer. There is less vegetation - not that Comb Wash is any jungle. It bares the heat of the sun for the entire day whereas Comb Wash luxuriates in the long cool morning shadow of Comb Ridge and the long evening shadow of Ceder Mesa. Even the pinions avoid the lower half. Closely to the east lies Black Mesa whose cliffs rise above the sage, but not too far - usually about 100 to 200 feet. To the west, white bare sandstone rises almost directly out of the wash creating an almost unbroken 20 degree plane rising toward the setting sun and Ceder Mesa. Upon reaching the top of the unbroken slickrock Comb Wash lies about 800 feet below. This snake-like summit is broken along its entire length by deep washes carved out of the solid sandstone. It is in these deep, narrow canyons that the Anasazi made their cliff dwellings. (In the picture below, taken within one of the deep washes, you can see Black Mesa to the east)


Along the wash, at various times, they lived in the pit houses I have described; they planted and harvested corn, beans, and squash; and they roamed the area for the many other food items they collected. They were the masters of the land.

I approached this wash a little differently. The road roughly followed the wash north and I stopped often doing one or two-hour walks up into the Comb. Although this side was drier there seemed to be more habitation. At each stop I headed into one of the deep washes. Each held their own secret. The angled sandstone was white-hot in the noon sun; almost unbearable, but the washes were cool. I waited till evening to climb the ridge.

There was some water in the the deeply cut washes, but not too much. And, Butler Wash only ran during rains and drained a limited area. But, when it did rain there was as much solid rock as soil and the wash must become a torrent. All day I looked for the water and all day I wondered.

I camped early, tired from the three days and somewhat beaten by the heat. I went up one more canyon and came back sitting in the only shade around - a grove of stunted and hardy oak trees. I wasn't the only one to find this place. The ruins of a Navajo hogan from the 1950's was nearby and just beyond that the telltale concave depression of a pit house. A Pinyon Jay kept me company while I rested and ate.

I picked up and headed up the comb. Where the sandstone met the soil I found a depression containing maybe 20 or 30 gallons of water. I bent and drank deeply and tasted the earth. I wound my way up the rough sandstone, skirting the drops and climbing now and again. Soon I found my answer. There were solid sandstone depressions containing pools of water everywhere. Some were crystal clear, some turbid, some even contained tadpoles. This barren, solid rock is where the water was stored in the cleanest vessel nature could find. In a space of a few acres there were 50 or so. In Spanish these water pockets are called tinajas and to desert travelers they are almost holy. I stood on earth's spine looking north and south and the view of white sandstone seemed unending. Black clouds gathered and I headed down.

Every evening, after the clouds build, the thunder roles across the desert. Far off darkness tells of rain and water. Lighting flashes far off into the night. Every night I watched this show usher out the sun. This evening I received just a few drops with the now answered water question quenched. The thunder crashed, a lone cicada serenaded the coming darkness, the crickets came out into the coolness, and far off two coyotes called to each other for the night hunt to begin.

The clouds fled with the darkness and I watched the stars come out. Again, I had found a lifetime in a few short days. I will return and find these places and feed upon stillness, glory in the beauty, and wrap my soul in the spirit of the people who called this home.

Comb Ridge - Post Four, Comb Wash Thoughts

Link to satellite map

I woke up in the shadow of the ancient ones, their leaves still in the dark early morning air. Orion to the east stood on the back of Comb Ridge. I wondered by what name the Anasazi knew him by. They were gifted astrological observers cleverly noting the sumer and winter solstices and other celestial events. Surely, they awoke and knew how much longer they could slumber by his position in their carefully framed windows. They would have associated him with winter, just as we do. He would have told them their grainaries should be full.

Near here, not 30 meters distance, they lived in a pit house or kiva - cool in summer, warm in winter. The perfect abode for this place. Generations had refined its design, made elegant chimneys, perfected the placement of the firepit, its fireback, and the drafts needed to retain the heat and keep the fire small. I imagined them in this place, in these trees, fetching water; checking beans, corn, and squash, waking up...

I drove south to climb Comb Ridge and return north through Butler Wash, not because I was done with Comb Wash. I have only started. But, before I leave, a little history.

The Hayden Survey (1874-1876) published the first map depicting the geographic, archaeological and geological features of southeastern Utah, including key archaeological sites on “Epson Creek,” now known as Comb Wash. Those of you who read my blog have heard me over and over again comment on camping where the Hayden Survey once camped. I once again crossed their path.

Later, the Mormons would make a little history here. The Mormon Trail intersects with Comb Wash Road and the trail still climbs upward toward Ceder Mesa through something called the twist. A Mormon delegation of settlers established the trail in 1880 and a six-week trip turned into a six-month over-winter trip full of unimaginable hardships. Seeing the country and imagining a wagon train attempting to cross it is a sobering thought indeed. Their full story has a bit of suffering. Here's a short version of the journey.

One other historical event of note happened in Comb Wash. William Posey, chief of a small tribe of Paiutes that roamed southeastern Utah at the turn of the century, was mortally wounded in 1923 by a posse in the Comb Wash area, hid there, and then died. He was apparently a bid of a bad guy, but of course the Indians were treated terribly. Posey was the last "hostile" Indian killed in the United States. His grave is in the canyon somewhere, but it was at least dug up twice just after he died. It is an interesting bit of history. Find it here.

With my coffee, in this stillness, surrounded by the red rocks, the cottonwoods, and the sand all of this history is timeless. Posey still hides in his cave bleeding and dying. Corn, planted in clumps greets the new day, Anasazi turkeys fly down from their night's roost, and the Mormon settlers greet a new day of suffering.

The heat gathered and I loaded up the truck.

Comb Ridge - Post Three, Fish Creek

The name Fish Creek implies water and indeed the creek does have water, but it does not flow in the traditional sense. However, there is enough water that most of the pools aren't stagnant, but are refreshed by seep and infrequent rains from the the creek's large drainage lying west toward Ceder Mesa. The water courses down through miles of sand and bedrock, collects, and feeds life for miles around. I saw raptors come to drink here in the evening and the prints of deer and coyote coming and going. In the wash I also saw bear scat - perhaps he was not an infrequent visitor. The accumulated pools are numerous and shallow, collecting in some areas, but absent in most others. And no, I didn't see any fish.

There is one other element to the water in the canyon. It brings life, but sometimes it kills. The evidence is written in the narrows; high water marks more than eight foot high, twisted piles of debris, massive rocks heaved against broken piles of chaos. As it rises, fed by the many, many square miles of exposed sandstone the torrent seeks nothing, but destroys everything in its path; especially, if that path is narrowed or restricted.

The canyon is dotted with ruins and seems to contain many eras of settlements. Only general inferences can be drawn without the archeologist's work, but there are clearly many kinds of structures and styles. Where the canyon joins Comb Wash there is a pit house; considered one of the earliest structures. There are many types of cliff dwellings, some clearly not intended for any kind of defense whatsoever. The two-hundred-fifty-year period subsequent to A.D. 900 is known as Pueblo II and seems the best fit for many of these ruins. But, there was one that was so clearly intended for defense or warfare I have never seen its equal. High on the mesa, up on a mushroom rock, unapproachable, and unreachable to me was a ruin. I have included it a picture of it here. It took a tremendous amount of work to get the material in place. It is a very defensible position, but I question its utility as you could be penned there with no escape. It is quite a sight, high up on the mesa silhouetted against the cloudless sky. I wasn't even sure it was a ruin at first - it seemed too improbable. If it was built for defense it is hard to imagine the fear the inhabitants lived in. Was it for the woman and children? Whatever the reason, this wash was last inhabited about 1250.

Some of the masonry is rather rough and some structures are built very skillfully. Generations lived here - the span is almost unbelievable; about 2000 years. It may have been sporadic and discontinuous, but not so much as we might imagine with our rather insignificant 250-year history. In one ruin a large flat rock used to grind grain (matate) worn with years and years of use was recycled; raised on its side and incorporated as part of a new structure.

It was a good day and an interesting place to visit. Even more interesting because there is nothing fantastic, nothing to bring the masses. It is the ordinary, the everyday - a place where 1000 years seem near history, uncelebrated, unphotographed - quiet and unassuming. That is the true magic of the place. And the hand prints outlined on the walls, their souls long departed, still mark the place with their work and the stones they set. We could only hope to leave a mark 1000 years later so those who passed wondered at the sight.

Comb Ridge - Post Two, High Mesa Ruin

The topo map indicated that there was a ruin up an unnamed wash high up on Ceder Mesa. I only had half-a-day of light having gotten up at 4:00 to begin driving. I thought I could make it to the top. I grabbed my stuff and headed west toward Ceder Mesa. As soon as I hit a high spot I was able to orient the map, make sure I was headed toward the right spot, and haul out the glasses to figure out a way up the steep terrain. There are always ways up the cliffs and across the steep terrain, but if you don't plan it out the most likely outcome is you'll become rim-rocked; this is, stuck and backtracking.

By the way, I took this picture not to show the location of ruin, but in the foreground you will see part of a bowl-shaped depression that was once a pit house or similar structure. While walking I found a single shard, which I though odd, but by making circles found the reason for the "homeless" shard; the depression. I was to find three of these during the trip. I mapped the locations and sent them to Utah archaeologist Winston Hurst. He is a consulting archaeologist who lives and works in his home town of Blanding, Utah. He received a Master of Arts degree in anthropology from Eastern New Mexico University and has been actively engaged in archaeological research in the Colorado Plateau since the early 1970s. He is currently the co-principal investigator for the Comb Ridge Survey Project. The Comb Ridge Survey Project, a multi-year archaeological inventory survey of a 42,000-acre area encompassing Comb Ridge and the adjacent Butler and Comb Washes, is inventorying all the ruins at Comb Ridge to include ancient camps, food gathering and processing stations, storage facilities, settlements, shrines, ancient Puebloan roads, Navajo hogans and historic ranching and mining sites.

On the way up, there were many limestone layers mixed in with the sandstone with deeply red chert inclusions (in geology - a mineral or rock enclosed in a larger body of rock). Pieces large and small were scattered across the desert and no doubt was a large source of stone tools. I found chippings of this chert during the entire trip. I'm quite certain this area must have been well known for this material.

The climb was well worth the effort. In the picture you can clearly see the deflector stone of the kiva located in the foreground. Comb ridge points south off in the distance. It was a very defensible site with water located in the form of drips several hundred feet up just at the lip of Ceder Mesa. It wasn't an easy site to get to and didn't afford any easy route to go anywhere. Interestingly, the debris pile was cut vertically by water erosion and the layers clearly indicated the site had been abandoned several times and reoccupied. Some of the abandonment layers were more than an inch thick. I don't know what that would equate to in time, but I suspect more than 100 to several hundred years. One of charming things in abundance in most of these ruins, including this one, is the finger prints still clearly visible in the mud walls. Most of the fingers seem to be quite small.

I spent some time sitting and imagining what it might be like to live there. I wanted to climb up and check out the area, but time was ticking and I didn't want to go into the night. I hustled off the mesa and returned to the truck.

I drove down Comb Wash and found a nice place to camp among the cottonwoods. I went out to take pictures of the Comb as the sun was setting and walked back in the deepening dusk. I heard a noise off to my left and peered into the willows, but didn't see anything. As I walked away I stopped to check out the possibility of another picture and something caught my side vision or perhaps there was some small sound. I turned around and WOW, a bear! I truly thought I was seeing something else, but he was only dozen or so feet away. I snapped this picture of what must be the most southern desert bear ever seen, and he was moving south in a hurry. I guess he wasn't in the mood for a fight for he barely gave me a sideways glance.


Click below to see a few more pictures

Comb Ridge

Comb Ridge - Post One, the Place

I sat in a richly red cathedral, fire lapped the ceiling, stillness cloaked the walls in ethereal, unrelenting silence. This cathedral was last inhabited about 800 years ago and I now was only a visitor - an interloper. I left and gave the stillness to itself, and the sanctuary to those who made it their home and headed back down the wash.



Comb Ridge rises in the south-eastern desert of Utah. It is an immense monolithic, solid sandstone formation tilted at an angle of about 20 degrees running north/south about 80 miles (128 km) long (or longer, depending on the perspective), and about one mile (1.6 km) wide. Geologically speaking the Comb is a monocline — a great crack, a fold in the Earth's crust created by a slow slippage of deeply buried tectonic plates some 65 million years ago.

On the western side it drops vertically 800 to over 1,000 feet (245 to 300 m) to Comb Wash. On the eastern side it drops gently into Butler Wash. For the entire length, it is a slickrock playground, a geologic masterpiece, a natural history museum, and a archaeologist's dream. The dryness preserves the past as if time happened yesterday.

Both Butler Wash and Comb Wash flow into the San Juan River which cuts through Comb Ridge between Bluff and Mexican Hat. To the south the of the river the Navajo make their home; to the west lies the magnificent Monument Valley; to the north, the Abajo Mountains. The desert creeps up the washes and canyons, invading the mesas; shriveling the landscape, compelling the unprepared or uninitiated to stay on the far-flung roads. The heat and the dust and the miles and miles of sandstone bake the imagination.

Yet, there is water here. I found it everywhere; hidden in the creases, folded along the frozen and tiled dunes, sitting in cool huecos high on the ridge. The lost would die here, the wanderer would live wonderfully. The Anasazi, the Ancestral Puebloans not only wandered here, they lived here for thousands of years and their mark is still on the land. This is what I came to see and in this wash I found their hand prints on the walls, their kiva walls standing, and the places where they ground their corn and straightened their arrows. Here they grew squash, beans, and corn; hunted small game with finely woven nets, raised turkeys making intricate woven feather blankets, and painted beautiful pots, the shards of which make you long to see the original.

(more next post)

The Shell Bead

Beef Basin spread open like a book in the early morning light. The higher buttes lit up even more orange than usual, while the sage flats still retained a hint of inky blackness. A bit of chill still hung in the desert air. Numerous canyons feed onto the flats and choosing one to explore was as simple as following your feet. I had read that this place held promise for ruins and I was here searching for the Anasazi. After dinner, the night before, in the fading light I slowly walked around my campsite and began to find pottery shards; white with black woven designs, pinched, some colorless, and some quite large. I knew this place would indeed be special.

At just over 6000 feet this is high desert - the sun rays hot, boiling the summer and in winter the air bare and chilling. There was no one else here and no soul within at least 50 miles - maybe more. I was alone and I could experience this place through silence and solitude, much as those that lived did over 800 years ago. When the Anasazi last lived in these bright canyons Genghis Khan was marauding across the steppes of Mongolia, Europe was in the dark ages, and most men still lived not unlike the Anasazi, perhaps worse.

The Anasazi are not an ethnicity so much as a culture. We identify their building and their artifacts, but we know little about the people. Their disappearance during the 13th century is one of the great mysteries of American history and archeology. Their habitations go back for over 500 years and then vanish as they near the middle ages. There are many theories, but no agreement as to why.

One of the least understood facts for those who have not been to the Colorado Plateau is how expansive the ruins are. Everywhere I've been there are ruins. It is as if their civilization created a mighty extended city for hundreds and hundreds of miles. They seemingly lived everywhere and inhabited every corner. But, equally, one must understand that the Anasazi abandoned their settlements moving on to different lands; sometimes moving back into a place that had been left hundreds of years before, following the water and the desert shapes that tied them to their unknown mythology.

The Abajo mountains, to the south and east of Beef Basin, are the supposed location of some of the last remnants of the Anasazi. Whatever forced them to scatter brought them to this place. Where I was the canyon opens up into beef basin there is a small stream and a small ruin. It looks small and poorly built, but of extreme age. The streams in this country are mere dribbles appearing and disappearing - dependent upon the depth of the sand overlying the bedrock. This dribble ran into Beef Basin for about 50 yards and disappeared beneath the sage in a grassy green final breath.

One of the reasons I was here was to discover the water and how far I might wander in the future. Did the intermittent springs shown on the maps flow? How much country could I cover in one day? I knew how much I needed - about 3 liters during the day (or about 100 oz). The temperatures climbed to about 100 during the heat of the day with the ground temperatures being about 120. I wore a long-sleeved desert shirt, a wide brimmed hat and shorts and could climb and travel quickly throughout the greater part of the day mostly unaffected by the heat.

I believe my bones remember my youth. I was born into this world in the Mojave Desert and as a young boy played out in the heat in one of the hottest places in the continent. And, although I never fully connected the dots until recently, I have always loved the heat - a hot car, the full rays of the hot sun, or now; the baked quality of the desert at noon.

The canyon was neither deep nor wide, surrounded on each side by small, rough and broken sandstone cliffs varying between 20 and 60 feet capped by a gradually rising plateau on which grew pinion pine, juniper, and low-growing sage, but on which mostly plain, dry and cracked white clay soil lies giving way in places to swaths of loose sand. Sometimes, this upper plateau was capped by solid sandstone mounds, steeply sided, and devoid of vegetation, rising hundreds of feet above the pinion pine. The stream came and went in patches of green, life swirling around the nectar then ending in the dust and the heat.

What I had sought surprised me stopping me in my tracks, but it was far away and I was unsure of what I saw. I was accustomed to seeing cliff dwellings, but to see a tower rising out of the pinion was new to me. I raised my glasses and in excitement started in a run.

The canyon forked; the west side of the west fork was broken down, the cliff disappearing into a steep slope. At that place about 80 feet above the floor of the canyon stood an ancient tower. I approached, not up the obvious slope, but from small, deep "V" cut, directly to the north. I wanted to be secret, to surprise the stones, to walk up not as a tourist, but as a user.

The tower was not a single tower, but the tallest remaining tower left in a habitation of about 20 similar structures. What remained was about two stories tall and completely circular with a diameter of about 14 feet gradually decreasing in diameter going up at an angle of about 4 or 5 degrees. Each other structure was built against each other structure, not unlike mud dabber nests. To get into any one you had to travel through several low doorways. The construction was not tight and mortared, but well fit and loose. At one time the entire inside was plastered - small finger prints were visible still pressed into the dried mud; however, most of this covering had long since worn away. Two square structures occupied part of the small, flat area. I assumed them to be older, but partially rebuilt at some point.

I could see the Anasazi, baked by the sun, small of stature, rough-hewed, and smiling walking down to the intermittent stream, pot in hand - ducking out of the coolness of the narrow doorways, sitting on the same stone upon which I now sat. I saw what they saw. Looking up and down the canyon I wondered.

I spent some time in this quiet place and at last I squatted in the shadow of the tower collecting my pack and drinking in the coolness before I stepped back into the heat. I scanned the loose earth around me - shards here and there, juniper seeds - some black with age and some still deep purple. Something smooth, something different caught my eye, a glint of a brilliant white thin edge. I moved the dirt aside with my finger and a polished shell with a hole in the center came into view. It was about half the size of the tip of my small finger - 2 or 3 cm wide, tiny, thin, convex, and finely crafted. It was easy to see that is was once worn as part of a necklace. Perhaps with purple juniper berries and quills; perhaps with other beads and stones. I did not know, but it was lost over 800 years ago and now found its way into my hand!

I wondered if its end was violent, or accidental. Was it torn away or lovingly sought after? Did it represent love? Was its ending written in blood?

I was on BLM land and sites such as this are routinely robbed. I knew I had to take the bead, but I didn't know where. I put it in a tiny pocket on my upper sleeve seemly reserved for such small items. I carried it throughout what would become a magical day - a day the Anasazi mystified and delighted me - a day I walked in their shadow. My footprints that day, the smell, and the sun are driven into my memory; indelible and enduring, until I too go the way of the Anasazi.

Several days later I returned to Moab. Having been to the NPS HQ there to collect a permit for going into Salt Creek Canyon - a canyon full of cliff dwellings, I knew its location. I asked for the chief archaeologist and was soon shown into a small office with maps and file drawers scattered around the room. I showed her my treasure and she was quite surprised. I got a good scolding for removing the object, but I explained it wasn't located in the park, but in BLM land. She couldn't accept the treasure, but directed me to the BLM office.

Again, I found the Chief Archaeologist. This time, however, I did not get a cold greeting. She was thrilled I saved the bead and I gave her the exact coordinates of its final resting place. She carefully wrote down the information and copied my map. Before leaving I asked her to tell me what she knew about it.

She said it was a very special find because the bead was from an olivella shell. She explained, archaeologists often infer paths of past culture contact by sourcing artifacts. Marine shells have been used as indicators of culture contact across long distances. Modern geographical ranges of marine mollusks are virtually identical to the ranges that occurred in the recent past, and this allows archaeologists to determine the coast of origin of sea-shell artifacts recovered from inland sites. Unless there is evidence that the geographic range of an animal has changed, we can safely assume that current ranges are the same as those in the past. This shell was traded across the west from the coast of modern California! Rather all at once, or over time, no one can tell, but either way a fact not missed by the imagination. Goods were flowing back and forth across great distances 400 years before Europeans discovered the "new world" and I had held some of those goods and took it on perhaps its last journey.

I will go back to the Basin. I could spend an entire summer there, in the heat, wandering the canyons, climbing the cliffs, and searching for the soul of the past. The vastness and beauty filling my being with the unknown and the unknowable.