The Path of the Ancient Ones

I run along the precipice of the Colorado Plateau in Mesa Verde National Park.  The sun is strong, and the day is quiet enough that all I hear is my labored breathing and the rattling of stones clinking against the cliff and bouncing down the embankment. The ledge is wide enough for two people to walk hip to hip until I reach a boulder somehow clinging to the wall and resting atop a half-dome.  A narrow passage was cut through the rock, whether by humans or natural forces I don’t know, and I slip through the tight corridor sideways as my chest brushes against the smooth stone.

On the other side of the corridor is a cavern tucked underneath the top of the plateau.  The walls are blackened with soot.  Those fires could have been built by the Ancestral Pueblos, who are sometimes referred to as the Anasazi, a Navajo term that means “enemies of our ancestors.” The Ancestral Pueblos, the preferred moniker, lived in Mesa Verde since the eighth century.  They survived in these harsh lands for a few centuries, and they relocated for reasons not totally understood by archeologists.

Beyond the bend in the plateau, I climb a pile of rubble to study a wall adorned with pictographs.  There are stick figures with long bodies and thin arms, handprints, swirly symbols, and long-necked animals that could be lizards or coyotes.  Was this a warning message to intruders?  Or a welcoming sign?  Was this art practical or made for recreational purposes? I don’t know what to make of these ancient doodles.

I hear voices and approaching footsteps, and I need to be pressing on, so I climb up onto the ridgeline.  I have left the red rock canyons behind in Utah and now stare at the tree-filled greenery below from which Mesa Verde gets its name.  I jog toward the parking lot a few miles away while thinking of how fit the ancient ones had to be in order to live here.  It must have been normal for every abled-bodied villager to climb with ease and run for miles in the dogged heat. I envy their physical prowess.  Now I cannot imagine a time in which laziness was a death sentence.

I reach the parking lot and drive a few miles to the trailhead toward the Balcony House, a cliff dwelling reachable only by steep ladders. The Ancestral Pueblos lived in these alcoves in the cliff under the rock outcrop of the plateau.  The structures faced south so as to take full advantage of the sun’s position.  Winters here at high elevation get very cold, but their homes receive ample sunlight.  During the brutal summers, their homes are cast in the shade a large portion of the day.

There is a large congregation of thrill-seekers in the parking lot.  A ticket for a ranger-guided tour is four dollars and beats any hundred dollar admission into an amusement park that only promises cheap thrills that don’t come cheap.  The Park Ranger is lanky and thin, and he sports a red beard. He leads us down a set of stairs and then a paved trail until we reach a wooden ladder that is thirty feet high and leaning securely against the cliffside. 

The Ranger tells the group that if anyone is afraid of heights the trick is to not look down.  A fleshy woman seems distressed at the climb, but two young girls next to her play it cool as though this is nothing but a household stepstool.  The Ranger goes first.  I allow a woman and her husband to go before me.  The woman shoots up the ladder with ease, but the man grabs each rung carefully and studies his next move.  I grab onto the first plank and look above to see the bottom of the man’s soles and his khaki-covered behind.  I give the man some time before I ascend. 

As I near the top I look down and wonder if the fall would be deadly or only high enough to break precious bones.  I am not considering this out of any sick reason but to imagine the consequences of such a fall for the Ancestral Pueblos.  They did not have the luxury of a wooden ladder but instead used natural footholds in the rock or pegs later embedded into the stone.  I hoisted myself into the cave and photographed the cliff dwellings before more people showed up and obstructed the view. 

   

Builders made bricks from sandstone and layered them with adobe mortar.  Individual houses are quite different compared to our modern homes.  The cliff dwellings are remarkably small, and there are no doors, only windows.  Each room is built atop the other, and the second-story is accessed by an exterior wooden balcony rather than a set of stairs.

 

When I worked on a cruise ship, I shared a room the size of a walk-in closet, and when I told guests how small my quarters were, they usually said, “I bet you don’t spend much time in your room anyways.” Thus I hope it was for the Ancestral Pueblos.  There seemed room enough for a small family to sleep on the floor bundled together.  A tour of the house is akin to sticking your head into the window for a few seconds.

As everyone reached the perch, we all crowd around the ranger who says he wouldn’t mind having this view to wake up to, and he points to the canyon floor and the cliff opposite us cast in an orange glow from the setting sun.

“Could you imagine sipping your morning coffee and sitting on the balcony here?” the ranger asks.

He tells us that archeologists dug up pottery fragments that were found on the canyon floor, and a few cups contained residue of a bitter chocolate.  They weren’t drinking coffee, the ranger says, but hot chocolate, except not like the kind we know today.  The thought of an ancient people sipping a drink I’ve drunk before on this very place that I now stand makes me feel as though there are many facets of humankind that have not and will not change——namely the love of chocolate. But I don’t realize the historical significance of this until the ranger tells me.

“Chocolate of that kind could only be found in modern-day Mexico,” the ranger says. 

This indicates the Ancestral Pueblos traveled extensively and traded with others.  This piece of information sticks with me the most.  Before hearing this I never understood the significance of collecting ancient eating utensils.  At museums I’ve stared at many Viking artifacts without amazement because I believed I was only looking at rusty forks and broken bowls.  Household items may seem mundane because we are constantly surrounded by them, but they play a major part in our existence.  I drink two cups of coffee every day, and my coffee cup is one of my favorite and most often used possession.  Most Americans understand a preference to live with convenient access to caffeine.  A trip to Mexico across the rugged desert to get their cocoa fix only adds to my respect for the ancient ones.

The ranger leads us up a small ladder and through a narrow hallway and on top of the kiva, a sacred underground room used for meetings and religious ceremonies.  The subterranean room is circular and features a bench.  A small hole in the ground called a sipapu symbolized the Ancestral Pueblo’s emergence from the underworld.  It seems these people lived in canyons within canyons within canyons.

It’s a common misconception to say that the Ancestral Pueblo people disappeared.  They disappeared from places like Mesa Verde, but they did not vanish altogether.  They moved south to places like modern-day Arizona and New Mexico, but their reasons for moving are varied.  Many archeologists believe the Ancestral Pueblos relocated due to a combination of drought, soil erosion, and deforestation.  Warfare over limited resources may also have contributed to their abandoning their homelands in search of a more suitable place to live. 

To exit the cliff dwelling, I crawl through tight hole that the Ancestral Pueblos built for defensive measures.  If I stand ten feet away from the hole, I could convince myself that I will not fit, but I squeeze through. 

On the other side is another ladder and three small switchbacks on a smooth-rock slope equipped with chain railings.  I reach the parking lot again and drive toward a public shower and laundry facility. Under the light of a full moon, a family of deer watch me as I lug my laundry bag toward the washer.  An old man inside the laundromat asks me if I speak English.  When I tell him I do, he says the quarter machine is broken, and I’ll have to get change at the campground store. I thank him regardless of the sufficient change in my pocket and dump my dirty clothes into the washer and close the lid.

It has been five days since I’ve showered, so I stand under the spray of the hot water and scrub myself clean of the desert sand.  I towel off, dress, and walk into the breezy night air.  While my clothes spin in the wash cycle, I think about where I will sleep tonight and how far I will travel in the morning.