Chapter 11
Nina’s Art
Caleb and I have taken the advice of some old timer we met back in our campground by Gallup, left the highway behind, and followed one old road that led to another and another. And I’m pretty sure we’re nowhere near anyplace Grandma Vera ever set foot, nor even close to where we were aiming for 20 minutes ago, off the GPS unit altogether. And yet, we continue. He’s at the wheel, looking inordinately pleased as the truck lurches upwards, farther along what’s quickly becoming a one lane dirt road. A track. Still, there are tire tracks, and the rocky landscape is intriguing.
He glances over. I shrug. The rough road crests a hill and evens out somewhat. There’s a crookedly placed sign ahead, and a widening in the road. Caleb slows, steers into what might be considered a parking area, big enough for two or three cars. “Petroglyph area,” he reads. “Check it out?”
I’m already half out the door, camera in hand. He grabs a cold water from the cooler. It’s mid-morning, the sun’s moving upward, the arid landscape warm. “That guy didn’t have a clue, I’m pretty sure,” I say, looking for landmarks to get my bearings. “There are no springs here, nobody would have gone this far out of the way for a safe night off the highway.”
“It’s cool though, you know?”
“Yeah.” I can’t deny it. I want to find petroglyphs that nobody’s seen before. I check my filter and carefully clean it. “Maybe he said left when he meant right or something. Or we did.” We weren’t paying super close attention at this morning’s leisurely and amusing breakfast with our friendly fellow camper.
“Look at this!” Caleb’s pointing to a rock formation just steps ahead. There are crude figures scratched into the rock. “Those are the older ones, I was reading about them,” he says, pointing up to some more images that just look like a series of dots. “Thousands of years old.”
We stand side by side, squinting at the rocks and the ancient, faded markings. I think of the eons of time elapsed. The people who made these images, the tools and effort that I now so easily capture with a simple click. It hits me, gut level, this sense of connection I feel. Like faint shadows of the ancients are still here with us. I can’t imagine being anywhere else at this particular moment, though we arrived here unplanned and unexpectedly. But how good that we found this place.
“There are more up here,” Caleb calls. He’s scrambling ahead, looking more comfortable on his leg than he has in months.
I follow, eyes darting between the rocky outcroppings and the strange, eerie images. They’re mostly at eye level, or a bit below. Shorter people, I guess.
Caleb pauses several paces farther along, in a flat clearing surrounded by massive, gracefully arched stones. “You could camp here and be protected,” he says. “Look how there’s stuff growing by here – I bet there is water underground nearby.”
I’m struck by the sharp contrast of light and dark, from the shadows and even on the rocks themselves. There’s faint coloration but a color photo here will look black and white, or vaguely sepia. Then a tiny shock of green, the small plants that somehow found water. Turning for a vertical shot, I see another faintly scratched petroglyph just visible in the bright sunlight. Sharp edges of the rocks contrast to the delicate images and pale cracks sliding down the surface of the stones.
It’s got nothing to do with what we came here for, but it’s remarkable. I imagine generations of native people, living quiet nomadic lives around here, eons before cars or land disputes or European immigrants.
Caleb gazes up toward the sky, then makes his way in a quick climb up to the top of the highest outcropping. He’s more agile again, like his younger self. Or like his grandmother no doubt was, all those years back. “Climb up here,” he says. “You can see for miles.”
Up I scramble, considerably less gracefully, but confident that Caleb has already seen me looking lots worse.
The view is something. Tans and browns and massive rocks as far as the eye can see. Far in the distance, the interstate running almost parallel to an old riverbed snaking nearby. Behind us, hills becoming mountains. Just hints of green.
He points in the direction we’re headed, towards the Petrified Forest. We’ve been planning to stop there. But this place, this unplanned stop, it occurs to me, may end up being more magical.
Slowly, stopping here and there for a few more photos, we make our way back to the car. Back down the crude roads toward the sparsely populated highway.
“This can count as the rough road where they got their first flat,” Caleb suggests.
I have to agree. “Hold it a sec, let me get out and take one of you going over a pothole.”
“Hardly the same with four wheel drive,” he says, but stops to let me out.
“Well, that’s the point. It’s pretty damn easy now, in the truck. Things have changed.”
I take several steps back, to get the truck, the narrow road. Not sure what will come across – even I will admit that sometimes a picture can’t truly capture the essence of a place like this, both the challenges and ease of it. Any more than a quick conversation or facebook post could give more than the briefest hint of this morning’s adventure. Sometimes you just have to be there.
We’re quiet, each with our thoughts, back on the highway. The other cars and giant rumbling trucks seem like an imposition now.
Another 40 or so miles, and we take the exit toward the Petrified Forest. No shady spot to park, but we cobble together lunch and make for a shaded picnic area. There are lots of cars, several families in view. Most moving at a faster pace than we are, hurrying despite the heat to snap quick shots of each other in front of the larger chunks of once fallen trees. Like they’re checking it off their lists before racing back to the car.
Sated, Caleb and I start a slow wander, tapping on the petrified wood, marveling at it. It’s an interesting phenomena, but I hadn’t realized how pretty the whole area would be. The eerie formations of the petrified wood, the colors, the patterns of the colors. Gentle sloping hills under the wide open dome of sky, brilliant blue with cottony white clouds slipping along, running shadows over the rock strewn ground.
I’m finding some good quality little shots – pieces of the petrified wood angled nicely by blowing dry grass, interesting color combinations, lights and darks. But I’m hard pressed to capture the grandeur of the whole place.
“Arizona’s darn pretty,” I announce to Caleb. “Who knew?”
“Yeah, until we get to the racist hangouts and the bloody 66 part,” he says.
“Don’t forget the Grand Canyon. And Sedona.” We’re still debating which of these to detour toward. Likely we’ll do both. We’re making good time. And we still have over three weeks to go before we need to deliver the truck and can get our house back. Funny though, where that much time seemed like a monstrous lot at the start, our rhythm has shifted enough that now the prospect seems only adequate.
Our pace has slowed, we’re taking more time to be outside mornings, evenings, or at interesting sites like this. Stopping for longer, talking to local people, taking in local ball games where we find them, even charming little high school games. Of course still following the path of Grandma Vera’s photographs. Plus – and I don’t think Caleb is quite on board yet, but he’ll come around – now we’ll need to make a detour over to the coast. To Monterey, to follow up as best we can on Vera’s long lost beau.
Long Road to California Page 10
