Ralph Tingey's Open Salon Blog

Southfork Ice Festival

Mon, 27 Feb 2012 12:02:04 -0500

A view of the cliffs lining the Southfork of the Shoshone River. Great ice: one of several hundred such climbs.

Don Foote had called and asked me to present a slide show Saturday night at the ice festival in Cody, Wyoming. Having never climbed there, I accepted immediately. Don drove me up the Southfork road accompanied by a continuous narration of the climbs as we passed them; he was a mine of information as I craned my neck to see above. The road was littered with deer, thousands of them, then sheep, then elk. I even spotted a cat hunting in a field.

Bighorn sheep on the road.

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The next day, we met "The Germans", Marco, Klaus, Christian, and Carmen. Marco had come a year before at the invite of his friend Werner, a Cody local. Now I had partners and relied on their experience to lead me to a fine new climb. They inadvertently led us to a detached hollow slushpile. However we had a blast in the warm sun. I let up the mush while they tried to call me down. At the top I grabbed a 2" willow that broke off in my hand, but I belayed from the scrub anyway, depending on the experience of a lifetime of rotten belays. It seemed normal.

The slush blob appears

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Marco on belay...for all the good it would do!

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Klaus shades his eyes from the melting sun

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Christian gives our effort a thumbs-up.

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The Germans had been climbing for several days straight, so this was a great rest day for them. I hadn't climbed ice in a month, except for chopping the ice off the eves of my house after the continuous snowfall of the past several months in Anchorage. The mushy ice caved under my feet. A sheet of water ran behind the ice-like substance I was standing on, and a hollow "Thunk" shuddered the whole edifice at every blow.

Klaus with a resigned look, ready to go!

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Werner emerges...

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Carol and Jen arrived from Boulder, lifting my spirits even higher. I had discovered the Silver Dollar bar and grill the night before, so we all headed over for beer and burgers.

Kate, my new best friend at the bar

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The menu of 3 items!

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I asked Kate, the server, what I should eat. "A Hamburger!" she replied. I looked at the menu. Only three items, the first was the burger. I saw they had IPA on tap. I was in heaven.

Waiting for Godot...and a hamburger with my IPA.

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Paradise on earth

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The rest of Team Germany had taken a rest day, but there was no rest for Marco when he heard Carol and Jen would be along. We picked "Chasing the Sun" at the end of the road and a short 45 minute hike up the boulders. It turned out to be an excellent choice. It was Jen's first ice climb. She is a fantastic ice climber and had just started her new job as the Rocky Mtn Regional Rep for the American Alpine Club.

Jen and Carol approach "Chasing the Sun"

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A big smile seeing the ice!

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The vertical curtain of ice was bullet hard in the morning sun; it would be a perfect place to learn.

The first pitch

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Carol led up the left hand edge with Marco. I took the right side and set up a top rope. Jen floated up the ice. I was impressed.

Jen flying upward

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Don had volunteered us to teach a clinic for beginning climbers on Saturday. Nineteen folks were supposed to be in the clinic with five instructors; twenty six showed up. It was excellent! To weed out the weak, the snow-covered road stopped several of the huge trucks and became stuck on the hill. Like wounded hippos, We abandoned the wounded ones like hippos on a riverbank, filled the rest with the crew and continued on. The greatest casualty was the Doc, who slipped on the road and snapped his humerus off at the ball. Don took him back to the hospital.

Allie & beer!

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The three large climbs of grade 2 and grade 3 ice were an hour's drive and a 45 minute hike, guaranteeing that everyone who made it would be in moderate shape and warmed up. The guides set up 4 top-ropes, and we went to work with the crowd, giving everyone a chance to climb all four. It was a Wyoming Bubba event, so a huge smoky bonfire was soon glowing, warming the cold souls who roasted hot dogs.

Climbers practice on the line of ice, while bystanders cook hot dogs.

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Shane with battle wound

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Don arrives after medical duty on the Doc

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By 3 pm we were done, and I had a slide show to present at 8. I'm sure I had the most fun, recollecting the 1967 rescue on the North Face of the Grand Teton and the lives of my friends who lived through it with me. Looking into the audience, I saw old friends like George Lowe, John Bragg, Mary Ann Dornfeld. And new ones like my nephew's wife's brother Pete McConkie. I had a great evening slurping down the free Ranger IPA, compliments of New Belgium Brewing.

The SAR folks ascend the choss and scree

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But Sunday morning came early. Don had roped me into helping him teach a clinic on mountain rescue to the local SAR groups. We headed out in Don's huge Suburban loaded with the coolest rescue gear ever. I, who come from the era of goldline ropes, steel carabiners, Stokes litters, and bowline knots, would be helping instruct a state-of-the-art rescue school. Well, I could help them be safe. And, I'm not a total Luddite; I do use new gear!

On the slick traverse to the climb

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We scraped up a scree pile, across a somewhat dangerous traverse and down to the top of a nice 60 foot climb where Don set up a very modern tripod and pulley.

Working with the rescue tripod

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I'm sure I learned the most. It was a great group of folks from the surrounding communities. Everyone had a turn both lowering and raising the litter using the traditional 3 to 1 pulley system over the tripod.

The folks haul on the 3:1 system

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Very cool! I'll be back next year for sure, and I'll plan to spend more time searching out those big drips.

THE GREAT BOOK LIST

Sun, 26 Feb 2012 12:02:34 -0500

THE GREAT BOOK LIST

Since I was a young boy, I have kept a list of the books I've read in a red three-ring binder where the scraps of various kinds of paper, written with a variety of pencils and pens are preserved. Amazingly, I had never looked back to review all the books until one day recently, cleaning out my office, I thumbed through the list. Suddenly I was in a time warp, traveling back through the years remembering these wonderful books and what each meant to me. Why I picked each one could take volumes; suffice to say that each seemed like a good idea at the time. Some were text books, some travel volumes, some read for school, and some just trashy novels at the beach or on a airplane.

There were fat years and lean years. Right after my son Thor was born, I seemed to do a lot of reading, possibly while I was rocking him to sleep. Somehow I didn't put Dr. Suess's "Cat in the Hat" on my list, but I must have read it to him a hundred times. Then in 1984 when I built our log home in Denali Park in Alaska, I only had time for a few.

My father and mother both read to me as a child: "Blueberries for Sal", "The Little Engine That Could", "Paddle to the Sea", Tree in the Trail", "Jack and the Beanstalk", "The Pokey Little Puppy", "Little Black Sambo", "Call it Courage"... Mom was a school teacher, and dad was a doctor, so they had excellent taste in a child's reading program. I wish I could remember all the titles.

As a young boy I envied my father's library, locked in his study in the basement. He had installed the hinge with the pins on the outside of the door, and I became expert in extracting the pins with a butter knife, quickly lifting the door off the hinges, then replacing it within seconds to gain access. I loved his study: it had his great-grandfather's pistol and rifle, his college swimming medals, a beautiful glass-covered desk, and walls lined with fine books. I still remember nearly every title as my mind's eye scans the rows. Of course, to a young mind, Kinsey's "The Sexual Behavior of the Human Male" and "Sexual Behavior of the Human Female" were where I got all my early knowledge of sexuality. But the great books, T. E. Lawrence's "Seven Pillars of Wisdom", W. Somerset Maugham's "Of Human Bondage", among hundreds, were my favorites. I would take a book, slightly move each volume in the row so it appeared all the books were still there, take it to my room and read it at night. I'm sure my father never had a clue.

From our house on 11th avenue, Bus No. 6 took me downtown to the Salt Lake City Public Library for a nickle. I strolled the stacks looking through the great outdoor books by Ernest Thompson Seton or Daniel Beard. I loved science and checked out every book in the children's section. I still remember W. Maxwell Reed's "The Sea for Sam", "The Earth for Sam", and "The Stars for Sam". Alfred P. Morgan was another favorite who wrote science books. I checked out each of them many times: "The Boy Electrician", "First Chemistry Book for Boys and Girls", "The Boys First Book of Radio and Electronics" (on through the Fourth Book...), and "An Aquarium Book for Boys and Girls". I remember buying an aquarium afterwards and having fish, hamsters, spiders, snakes, and lizards for years after, much to my mother's consternation.

By eleven I graduated from the children's section upstairs to the adult section. Geology had become my passion, and the very best books were there: geology textbooks on sedimentology, historical geology, mineralogy. Volumes like "Dana's System of Mineralogy" which was far beyond me, but somehow it all made sense and my knowledge grew.

Frederick H. Pough's "Field Guide to Rocks and Minerals" was the first book I bought. It cost $3.75 which I earned from mowing lawns at a dollar each. I still have that book. My library grew over the years and the geology books transitioned to mountaineering books after I discovered climbing at age 14.

The world opened even wider when I left home and went to Finland, learning a foreign language. But my reading narrowed. As a Mormon missionary, I was limited to reading only the basic church books: the Bible, the Book of Mormon, Pearl of Great Price, and Doctrine and Covenants. Reading the Bible was a life-changing exercise. After a short way into the book, I realized I didn't believe the theology; it made no sense to me in light of everything I knew, and I spent the next several years trying to reconcile my life and beliefs with reality. My whole social fabric was the Mormon church, and leaving didn't seem to be a possibility.

At home back in Utah, I changed my major from pre-med to Classical Greek. It was a crazy thing to do, but I was fascinated by languages, and for the next two years I took every class that the professors would teach. The Greek classics grew on my bookshelves, along with grammars, books on linguistics, commentaries, and volumes in a variety of foreign languages.

In the fall of 1967 I moved to Baltimore for graduate school at The Johns Hopkins University studying Arabic and Near Eastern Languages. There were hundreds of school books during graduate school when I was so involved in my research and work that I never put them on the list. During the five years working on my Ph.D. I read stacks of books in Arabic which are not on the list, and I would have had to transliterate the titles into Roman script from Arabic. It is interesting that during this period I included books I had read for pleasure at home, but not books I read in my study carrel in the library.

It was the 60's and besides my studies, I discovered the beat poets, Alan Ginsberg, Jack Kerouac, and principally Gary Snyder whose poetry seemed to speak to me. Poetry has been a passion all my life, and now the group of poets expanded: I discovered the New Directions Press, full of titles that would have been forbidden in my early life. Little by little the library grew.

The Bollingen series of books was started in the early 40's by Mary Mellon. Many of them were source books for my Near Eastern studies, so I started to acquire those beautiful volumes. I never stopped, and still today, if I see a rare on in a used book store I haul it home. They now take up four stacked barrister bookcases.

I loved the classics, but often they would take more time and concentration, so I developed the habit of taking the heavy (both in size and content) books on the plane or on a mountain trip, thus guaranteeing I would read the book. As I moved from home to home, I carted those books along. By now, I have a house-full of magnificent volumes. I dread ever moving again.

Unfortunately, this is not a complete list. As I read through it, I remembered many books that I didn't write down at the time. Although it isn't perfect, it is a good cross-section of my reading life. So, I re-typed the list here, mostly so my two children can someday see what made their dad.

Shiprock, 1961

Fri, 24 Feb 2012 02:02:22 -0500

Shiprock

Spring break, March 18-20, 1962 (or was it 1961? I'm getting old) my friends Milt Hokanson,Dave Wood and I loaded my little Jeep and drove from Salt Lake City to Shiprock, NM to climb the famous 1,700-foot high volcanic plug. I had read Jack Kerouac's "On the Road", and road trips were in my blood. We checked in with the Navajo Tribal Police in Shiprock and left our names and contact information. The officers were kind and helpful, wished us well, and we headed to the base of the rock in the dark. A few hundred yards short of the campsite I dropped the Jeep into a steep ditch, and it rolled onto its side. With the gas leaking out, we three lifted it back upright and continued on. I don't know how we did it, but I remember it was a super pain, with lots of digging and lots of pushing. I must have been stronger then; and we had Wood, nicknamed "The Logger", with us.

Yours Truly leading up the climb

Early the next morning we climbed up in the dark and surmounted the initial overhang in the cave at the start of the climb. In the photo I'm wearing a miner's aluminum helmet. I still have the sweater I wore on that climb, and the Tueler wristwatch. Going first on the rope, I remember being appalled by the quality of the rock after the great quartzite and granite at home. We had the description on a postcard, long before good guidebooks, so we made good time.

Climbing the vertical rotten rock

The climbing was fairly vertical, but blocky, so there were a lot of holds and the climbing was fast. We climbed over a notch and found a type of hard rhyolite rock, rather than the basalt-like choss we had been climbing

Climbing up the black rock in the early morning

Climbing through the notch

We carried an extra Goldline rope to fix the two 80' rappels; we left it hanging so we could climbing the overhanging water gully on the return trip. This left us two more ropes between the three of us for the summit.

Dave Wood leads out across the traverse

After rappelling down Dave led across the traverse out of the gullies which had a couple of 1/4" bolts for protection. It was winter, but here in the east bowl, the sun warmed us, so we had lunch.

Dave steps up out of the stirrup

Milt was as strong as an ox, and he did a lot of the belaying. I'm glad I got a photo of him; it may be the only one I have of the hundreds of climbs we did together as kids.

Milt belaying me at the Horn

Steve Roper had climbed the peak the previous fall, and we knew he had done the Horn Pitch free. I remember leading the Horn Pitch to the summit in a strong wind as the sun was sinking.

I begin the lead on the Horn Pitch

At the summit there was a little register for us to sign our names. In it we saw the first ascent party's names: David Brower, Raffi Bedayn, John Dyer, and Bestor Robinson. Fred Becky had been bolting a direct route up the sheer south side the previous year. We knew Becky from his trips through Salt Lake, but I'm sure we hadn't asked him anything about the climb. He was an old guy then...maybe 38 years old. We were 18 or 19.

I climb the Horn Pitch in a stiff breeze

I make it over the top

During the descent we had to climb up the hanging ropes; I led hand-over-hand, because we didn't have much to tie a prussik with. I remember using parachute cord around little horns for rappel anchors; we knew it would hold 550 lbs, so it should be good. We rappelled most of the climb in the dark, completing the climb in under 18 hours or so.

Rappelling off the summit

The little white jeep eaded back to Salt Lake in the morning. It was awesome! Dave wood went to medical school and became a psychiatrist, but unfortunately passed away many years ago. Milt Hokanson, the guy I started my climbing career with at age 14 lives in St. George. I count him as one of the most influential people in my life, and likely among the toughest sons of bitches I've ever known. Together we explored the West, floated the Glen Canyon in tiny rafts in 1956, learned to climb and made our first ascent of Lone Peak in 1957, and made our first ascent of the Grand Teton in 1959. It is sheer luck we are still alive.

Climbing with the Jacksons

Fri, 23 Dec 2011 01:12:01 -0500

It's a rare treat to climb with Renny Jackson. And even rarer to climb with Catherine. Now, there is a third member: Jane. This October we arranged to meet in Indian Creek, best crack climbing in the world.

Renny and I go way back: both of us are from Salt Lake City, we both worked as climbing rangers in the Tetons at Jenny Lake, and we are now both retired from the National Park Service. Renny worked in the Tetons for years, but in the early 90's he and his wife Catherine moved to Talkeetna, Alaska, where he worked on Denali for a few years. I had just left my post in Denali, so we missed each other there. Catherine Cullinane was the first woman to guide for the Exum Guide Service in the Tetons, so she holds her own in the climbing world. I'm always the junior partner (although older) when I climb with those two! This summer, Renny and his daughter Jane climbed Denali together. This launched her into the climbing world, and she took to it with a vengeance. In a few short months, she rocked upward in her skill level; check out the photos below.

On my fall road trip through Salt Lake City I passed by the Kimbrough's home on my way south to the desert. Paul, Peter, Tom, Barb and others were still up with the lights on at 9:30 pm, so I stopped in for a beer. There was so much energy among the young climbers and skiers; I was hoping some would rub off. They were psyched to climb, so we arranged to find each other during the next weeks in Indian Creek. I would be there, camped at Creek Pasture, as always.

South and North Six Shooter seen from the Second Meat Wall in Indian Creek

At "The Creek", we chose 'The Second Meat Wall' as a climbing area; it would be out of the hot sun through most of the day. We wandered north along the wall looking for an opening; most of the good climbs were already taken by the early risers. Chris and I made our way along until the vestige of the trail disappeared. An owl flew into a tree above us and we stopped to look. The owl didn't seem bothered and sat on the tree for a while; then it flew up a few more feet to a perch on the cliff. Neither of us had seen it before, so we sat down and watched it for quite a while. Chris later identified it as a Long Eared Owl, supposedly a more secretive species, but it hug around for us. Maybe we were encroaching on its territory, and it was just trying to outwait us.

It was cool in the shade, but we were wearing fairly skimpy climbing clothing, meaning expendable. The sandstone rips everything to shreds, including skin, knees, elbows, and hands. We wrapped adhesive tape around our knuckles, put on our climbing harnesses, and decided who would lead the first climb: "Two Timer". Jane was eager to lead; we were eager to follow. I was amazed that in a few short months she had risen from a novice to the strongest member of our party. While Renny belayed Jane up the climb, Catherine and I roamed around taking photos. Renny called up helpful advice on climbing technique and ways to protect the climb. It must be difficult watching a daughter engage in a dangerous sport. My ex-wife said that after a while she couldn't watch the kids climb with me. As I looked at Catherine and Renny I could understand that feeling.

Jane puts on her climbing shoes; Renny gets ready to belay her,
a typical father-daughter activity

Jane gears up for the climb

And checks the quick-draws: carabiners on nylon slings

Jane moved quickly up the crack system as though she had been climbing these walls for years. I was amazed at her fluid and confident motions. I'd been climbing for 54 years, yet she made it look so effortless.

Jane makes the first moves up the cliff

It wasn't easy, but she seemed to figure out every move, stemming on some of the fine holds to the left, climbing the crack directly when possible.

Moving up into the pure crack; a little overhanging in places, and very smooth

As she slipped the cams into the cracks, she seemed to have it all down: the crack climbing technique, the body position, the ease of placing protection. I marveled. Renny issued constructive advice.
As she neared the top of the hundred-plus-foot crack, it got harder; Renny and Catherine called up encouraging thoughts. The crack narrowed, and I remembered how difficult it seemed to me when I climbed it. She laid back against the wall, fitting her smaller fingers into the crack. That's a very Euro approach to the wall, but it worked. If I try it, I only get too tired and eventually flail.

Jane at the layback

As Jane called down a little desperate, I worried, then she figured it out, slid in a small cam, and moved up into the crack without using the layback technique. I was impressed. Maybe her fingers were smaller than mine, I rationalized.

Nearing the finish line

Then she was at the top. Renny lowered her, left the rope through the anchors, and gave everyone else a turn at the climb.

Renny getting a kinked neck from looking up at Jane

Mission accomplished!

Check out those legs

Catherine capturing it all on the camera

First, Catherine breezed up the climb. I watched her technique, always trying to learn something new, even at my advanced age. She made it look easy, but I knew it to be difficult. The breeze blew; Renny was still in a down jacket.

Catherine's turn

Cruising upward...

At the crux

Every once in a while I darted right around the corner to snag one of the other nearby climbs. Eventually one opened up and I got in a lead. It wasn't too hard, but it had a tricky section about two thirds of the way up. Next it was Chris's turn. She had come to Indian Creek with me a few years ago and unfortunately gotten a taste of the brutal crack climbing on the red Wingate sandstone. Somehow it gets in your system and you can't get it out. This year she had come with her friend Noel. It was his first experience on the splitter cracks, and he couldn't get enough of it. Today he followed some other friends while we climbed with the Jackson family.

Chris at rest

I was amazed at how well Chris was climbing, having not been her for quite a while. Lots of stamina, nice technique, and lots of perseverance pushed her ever higher on the climb. Over the next few days she continued to tick off climb after climb.

Chris at work

I couldn't help photographing all day. My favorites were of the knees, brutalized in the cracks after weeks of climbing, wedging, scraping, and grunting upwards. I joked that the women would never find a boyfriend with knees like that. Well, maybe they'd find just the right kind!

And check out those knees!

In the evening, we drove to Cottonwood Creek along the Beef Basin road where the Jacksons and their friends, Peter Popinchalk and other young folks were camping. What a crew!! Just as I had expected, I had been energized by their enthusiasm.

The team: L to R, Renny, Catherine, Chris, Jane's friend , Peter, Jane

Chasing the Anasazi through Beef Basin

Tue, 20 Dec 2011 18:12:13 -0500

Mystery attends the Anasazi peoples who lived in the Four Corners area from about 700 AD until they suddenly left in the 1300's AD. Who were they? Why did they leave? Were they killed, or did they migrate? Where did they go and what has become of them? Among the many theories proposed, the one I believe is the simplest and most convincing is that the Hopi and Zuni are the modern descendents.

Since I was a young boy, I have been fascinated by the anthropology and archeology of the early peoples in these lands. In college, I had the good fortune to take an introduction to anthropology taught by professor Jesse D. Jennings, the world authority on the Anasazi at the time. Later, in Alaska, I studied and worked with the finest archeologists on the peoples of Alaska. Now, later in life, I had found myself camping and climbing in the midst of the some of the finest archeological resources in the Southwest.

Last summer I discovered a new writer: Craig Childs, whose books on the Southwest were not only authoritative, but also works of literature. I read everything he wrote and dreamed of the summer months when I could follow one or two of his itineraries to the world of the Anasazi. After spending the previous two weeks rock climbing, my body was craving a rest, so I asked my good friend Chris if she was interested in a brief intermission to search for Anasazi ruins in Beef Basin.

Looking north from the Beef Basin road into the Indian Creek drainage

Chris had just spent the previous month on the San Juan river assisting her niece on a geological survey and was keen to go with me in search of ancient culture. Our other climbing partner, Noel had opted to take Chris' car and join the younger crowd who were climbing hard cracks in Indian Creek. We took my 'new' truck up the narrow dirt road the 38 miles into Beef Basin. At an average speed of about 15 mph over rocks, powder-dry dirt, and steep cliffs, it took us about 2 1/2 hours to reach our destination. We drove up to a wide spot in the road at the mouth of Ruin Canyon, parked the truck, and decided to walk the remainder of the road to avoid scraping all the paint of the sides of the truck. As we walked the few more miles, small granaries and dwellings appeared in the cliff bands above.

A small cliff dwelling nestled in the cliffs

Then we spotted "Hilltop Ruin", directly west and on top of a small knoll. We looked for a level spot, set up camp under a juniper tree at the base of the hill and headed up the trail in the late afternoon sunlight.

Hilltop house

As opposed to most of the cliff dwellings nestled in defensible niches among the cliff bands, Hilltop House sits out in the open on top of a beautiful forested knoll. It made me wonder if the function of this edifice might be more cultural or ceremonial than domestic. Many of the larger hilltop ruins in the Southwest have a ceremonial 'Kiva' attached, indicating some religious use for the building. The stones on more than half of this structure had fallen down and were laying around the perimeter, so I couldn't get a good idea of how the building all fit together.

Fallen buildings exist as a pile of sandstone blocks

Chris and I walked around the ruins marveling at the workmanship and detail still remaining at the site. Each of the sandstone slabs fit very closely without much trimming; no cement or mud was used to fill in between the stones, but it would likely have been quite a buffer against the wind, if not against the cold. The walls looked to be about 18" thick, two stories tall.

No mortar and still standing after 700 years

I wondered what my home might look like in 700 years if I just abandoned it. Likely only an overgrown cement foundation would be the only thing left. The panorama from the hilltop gave on a beautiful vista of cliffs, mountains, and canyons below.

Chris at Hilltop ruin

We walked around, checking every angle

Chris at the entrance (amended)

Check out "yours truly" compared to width of the walls

We walked down the trail a few hundred yards to the camp on the lumpy sagebrush flat under a huge juniper tree. The sun had only an hour left before setting, so dinner would be next. I went in search of two rocks we could sit on. Other than hiking back up the hill several times, I found only two small ones for stools.

Chris at camp

Chris had volunteered to be the chef on this trip. So, dinner started off with a tin of tiny clams in olive oil on crackers, washed down with a red wine. Then a risotto with a spinach topping: quite the fare for a camping trip, all cooked on a tiny propane backpacking stove. Life on the trail is good!

Chris, the gourmet chef with fine wine and clams

After a cold night in my light summer sleeping bag, I truly welcomed the sun and warmth. We wandered across the sagebrush to find the first sunlight as it hit the slope a hundred yards to the west, clutching our coffee cups. Chris brought the stove, and using a tree as a cupboard, had us caffeinated in a few minutes. Within an hour it was T-shirt weather again. We picked up our camping gear, packed our packs, and headed back down to trail to the truck.

Driving west on the 10-mile loop around Beef Basin, we searched the cliffs and hilltops for more ruins. Since they are all visited regularly, every spur road seemed to hold some cultural artifact.

A small granary on the rim

We hiked to the top of another hill and found a small granary used to hold the corn (maize) for the winter months. They were everywhere. About half way around, I hiked up another hill which held promise of a larger ruin and found a long house-like structure, mostly fallen into the ground. It also sat with a stunning vista of the surrounding desert and mountains. Whether some group of families lived here, or whether this was a cultural center, I didn't know, but I could envision myself waking up, walking out to the porch and reading the morning paper with a cup of coffee. I wondered if earlier settlers to the area used these structures as camps while they herded cattle.

This large ruin is just a few feet above the road

The day was flawless. The sun was warm. The desert made me feel at home. It was tough to leave. Following the dirt road around, we drove slowly looking for more artifacts from the past. Mostly I looked at every inch of the road, full of huge rocks, slickrock, holes, and ditches ready to take the bottom out of a car. My truck was just the ticket for negotiating the place, but even in it, I rarely drove over 15 mph. We arrived back at the Pasture Creek Campground in Indian Creek just at supper time, having traveled about 80 miles. It felt like a thousand miles and a thousand years back.

You could almost put a roof on and move in