The Past and Present Reflected in Solitude

Note: I recently was asked to write an essay about Sense of Place. This is my revised and much thought out version. Enjoy.

 I can literally feel my blood pressure decrease as I make the last turn on the asphalt that will take me to my destination. I have filled my gas tank and my cooler with food because where I will be going is sixteen miles from the closest store. I have my tent, flashlights, extra batteries, camp chair, lots of blankets and two pillows, all of the modern creature comforts that I need. As the road turns to dirt and the landscape flattens, a sigh escapes me from deep within. I know I will actually relax for the next few days because I am going to be camping alone in my most favorite spot in the world, which is Rock Art Ranch, in Northern Arizona. This is the place that I come to connect to the past. It is not my personal past, but a past that is very important to many. 

 I found RAR by accident on Memorial Day weekend several years ago. Grumpy and tired, I stopped to get gas in Holbrook, Arizona and realized that I needed a place to sleep for the night. I asked the man who owned the gas station where I would be able to camp and he told me that there was a KOA campground close. I then asked him if he knew where I might be able to find some petroglyphs in the area and he directed me to his friend who owned a ranch that had been evaluated by UNESCO as a  World Heritage Site. I called him immediately to set up a tour for the next day and was invited to camp on the ranch instead of going to the KOA. I jumped at the chance, of course. It was love at first sight, and became part of the reason why I decided to become an Archaeologist/Anthropologist. I return there often, when I feel the need to reconnect with the earth that is so important to me.

The landscape is stark, with rocks that look like they belong on the moon, a vivid red brown moonscape in strange shapes and formations. The wind blows constantly here and it wraps around me like a comfortable blanket as I step from my truck. I can see for miles, as the land is flat without many trees, beautiful, punishing and unrelenting. 

I  park at the edge of the canyon and begin my two days of solitude by descending to the canyon floor via the staircase that has been built into the rocks long ago. I can hear the water running in the creek as I am descending. When I am on the floor of the canyon, I take off my hiking boots and socks, sit on a rock and put my feet in the water. As I look upward, I see the petroglyphs on the wall across from me and my mind starts to wander….

            I am gathering water into my jar, looking up to see my child telling the story of his father’s hunting trip by pecking images on the rocks that shield this precious water for our use. He is happy here and content to wait for me while I think of his father and wonder when he will return. The deer graze here and I can see one down the canyon. I will not hunt him as my husband will bring back plenty of meat for us. I will remember where he comes to drink though, in case we are in need of food. I can hear a coyote in the distance, as the shadows are growing long and it is time to head back to our home with the water. I call to him and he lifts his head and smiles….. 

This is how I connect with my inner self. I enjoy being alone, exploring landscapes, connecting to the past, although it is a past that I never knew. My imagination, my professional training and my love of this sacred place puts together the pieces for me.

While I am in my sacred place,  I climb up and down the rocks, exploring all of the petroglyphs, wondering at all of the stories told here of great hunts, of fathers that journeyed and did not return and of the lady depicted by petroglyph that Brantley, the owner of this ranch has named Cinderella. I think of the child birthing scene depicted on the rocks, knowing that the experience that this woman had was so different from mine. The stories this rock art that dates to over 2,500 years ago tell is an important part of the past, of history and of my present. I cannot say that it is an important part of my future, because I do not know where life will lead me. I think about all of this as I climb the canyon walls, carefully placing my hands and feet so as not to damage history or damage myself with a rattlesnake bite.

 Often, I sit on the land in the center of the canyon, where many people do not go. The Archaeologists that come to this ranch to study this prehistoric area do not come here. I know there are several chipping station that have not been explored, as there are no footprints, no modern trash or even historic trash. I often crawl on my hands and knees, looking at the different kinds of stone and knowing that some of it has been brought here by foot from as far as Flagstaff, as these rocks do not exist here. The simple delight in finding piles of biface flakes is enough to make me happy and start reflecting on how the tools were made. As I handle the smooth and beautiful flakes, I can imagine the people who sat here on this high spot, making projectile points while they watch the landscape. They were silent, working to make the tools that would help them to obtain the food that they needed to exist. They were happy and untroubled, I imagine. I can still feel it, centuries later.

                                                           Just a pile of flakes....

There is water in this canyon. Sometimes more, sometimes less. I can always find an area deep enough to float. It is an amazing experience, to float in the water and gaze up at the images that are so old. It is peaceful and soul restoring. The water is sometimes chilly, but I don’t mind. It is clean,fresh and invigorating. 
  
 When it is time for me to ascend to the top of the canyon, it is almost dark. It is hard to believe that I have been in the canyon for hours, but time has no meaning here. I climb slowly, not really wanting to leave and yet eager to get to the top so I can watch the sunset. I resolve to one day sleep at the bottom, on one of the sand dunes or on top of a big rock. I do hope to one day do this but the top of the canyon calls to me as well, for different reasons.
  
 I make it to the top in time and sit on the rocks to watch the sky turn red, orange and purple, casting shadows upon the rocks, changing the view to another beautiful scene.

I take my gear from the truck and set it up my shelter quickly. I really don’t want to use my flashlight if I don’t need it. It is far too beautiful and serene to allow artificial light to enter this world (my quiet world) at this time.

 It is time to make a fire and make my dinner. There is wood kindly deposited here for this reason. Brantley knows I am here and is thoughtful enough to leave me this so that I will not have to gather it myself. I am usually not hungry but I know it is important to eat something and I do. It is getting chilly and I search for more clothing, stopping to pause and think about those that came before me. How did they handle the evening chill? How did they keep warm? I imagine a child being covered with the hide of a deer, smiling sleepily.

After dinner, I sit in the evening silence until the stars come out. The coyotes sing their evening song, bringing goose bumps to my skin. It is the first noise other than rushing water and my own breath that I have heard in hours.

The stars are out now, in this cloudless sky. I lay back on the rocks and watch it in wonder. I have seen this very sky in all four seasons and the winter is my favorite. I can see the Milky Way, Big Dipper and Cassiopeia. I admit that I get out my phone and use Goggle Sky Map. I’m not a versed as I want to be on constellations and am grateful for this piece of modern technology to answer my questions about what I am seeing. 

I often fall asleep looking at the stars and dreaming about life, thinking about the past and the present and trying to shut out the future. I sleep well on the rocks here or inside of my shelter, if I make it that far. I may be alone in my thoughts but I swear I can feel the presence of those before me, who lived on this land.

Rock Art Ranch isn’t for everyone. It is windy and colder than many places in Arizona and remote, rugged and tough enough to keep most people I know from visiting. However, I get to leave the busy Tucson that I currently call my home (and that I also love) behind and reconnect with the things most important in life.