Red Rock Ruins

AN TIME TRAVEL Brothers struggle to visit ancient Indian ruins high atop Red Rock

TEXT BY DANIEL HUNTSINGER PHOTOGRAPHS BY GALEN HUNTSINGER There I sat, a thousand feet up a butte, with an injured knee and little food. My brother, Galen, somewhere below me, descended the treacherous cliffs. My safety depended on his return with supplies. I looked over at the Sinaguan Indian ruins beside me and thought how those prehistoric builders had struggled every day just to survive in this harsh and dangerous land.

Two days earlier, we'd left behind the mechanized tourism of Sedona. Several miles of rough, four-wheeldrive road brought us to within hiking distance of our destination: an isolated and magnificent tower of red rock soaring 5,700 feet into the high desert sky.

Geologic changes had long ago separated this butte from

the Mogollon Rim, the edge of the Coconino Plateau. When we arrived, the first summer monsoon storms struggled to envelop the layers of sandstone, but remained stranded on the edge of the Rim. Later in the season, pounding downpours would fill long-dry channels and shallow catchments, called tinajas, in the sandstone.

"There better be water up there," I had said as we hoisted our heavy packs just after dawn and proceeded cross-country toward the rock tower. Already the temperature was pushing into the 80s. We hoped to spend seven days living on the mountain to discover and photograph remote Sinaguan ruins. The Sinagua (Spanish for "without water") thrived from roughly A.D. 600 to 1400 in the area between what is today the Wupatki National Monument and the East Verde River. Galen had scouted the vicinity and observed that many of the ruins there were not despoiled. If the tinajas were full of water, we, too, would flourish, and our dream of photographing these ancient sites would be fulfilled. Otherwise, we would go home early.Galen and I pushed our way through clumps of catclaw acacia bushes and pulled their nasty thorns from our skin. Agaves stabbed us with their bayonet-tipped leaves as we tried to travel harmlessly on durable surfaces and step clear of new plant growth. Countless small lizards sped away at our approach. A canyon wren's song lilted from a cleft in the rock. Sleeping near this cleft a year ago, we were awakened in the predawn stillness by what seemed like a shrill scream of a woman actually the screech of a mountain lion.

"The hold civilization has on me is slipping away again," my brother remarked. I felt it, too. Each step took us farther back in time-and away from time.

We passed two dark pools in a mostly dry creek bed where Southwestern Woodhouse's toads sat and croaked. Our minds echoed their songs as we emerged from the juniper forest and faced the cliffs of the butte. As we forced our bodies through, over and thenfrom one rocky tier to the next proved arduous and tricky, occasionally requiring rope work. Two ravens swooped in, peered at us and cawed.

"They're asking us why we're taking the hard way up," Galen readily interpreted. Red sandstone gave way briefly to a layer of reddish-brown shale. This may have once rimmed the surface of a lake. Scattered circumscribed areas dotted the stone where black sediment had been deposited. Galen, whose photographer's eyes spied everything, noticed some prehistoric animal's tracks perfectly preserved in the sediment. Several Indian ruins lay along our route. We would return to photograph these later, once we established our base camp. For now, we marveled at the design and construction of the Sinaguan structures, whose flattened sandstone blocks, fill material and mortar stood as testament to man's victory over time.

Our climb led us around the butte. Now and again we saw deeply worn human handholds and footholds carved into the rock more than 600 years ago. We used them when we could, literally climbing in the footsteps of the ancients.

Halfway up a steep slope, my left foot slipped off a foothold, and avoiding a fall, under manzanitas that blocked our pathway and ripped at our clothes, backpacks and skin, I almost stepped on a brown moth. Its wingspread was as wide as my hand is long. A hundred feet up, the cliff face flared out into a cathedral ceiling, shielding us from the sun. We continued around and behind the mountain and finally reached an unbroken stretch of red rock. Here the grade increased radically, leading uphill at a thigh-burning angle to the first of several tiers. Climbing

I strained my knee. I felt the joint twist and a jolt of pain made me curse.

"Hey, are you okay?" asked Galen from above me.

"I'm fine," I answered, grimacing. "No problem."

"That's good because you've got all our food and water," he quipped. I hoped my knee had suffered only a minor sprain. I limped onward, losing ground to my brother, and had a difficult time climbing the pine tree we used to cross over onto a shelf high above us. We pulled the packs up by rope.

Passing more ruins, Galen crested a spur ridge far ahead of me. Swifts dive-bombed him as he looked down at our intended camping site. The next thing I heard was a triumphant yell.

"Eureka!"

Galen, with arms flailing in excitement, looked down at the full tinaja. Sunlight glinted off the water's surface. I lowered my pack from aching shoulders, slumped down onto the red rock and winced as I slowly straightened out my left leg. The tinaja sparkled at my feet. The pool measured 8 feet in diameter and about a foot deep. Thirty feet or so beyond the pool, the red rock precipitously dropped off to the next tier 200 feet below. The view extended for a hundred miles down the Verde Valley. To the northeast, the thousand-foot cliffs of the Mogollon Rim glowed golden in the lateafternoon sunlight.

Barely able to walk, I stayed near camp for the next couple of days, boiling water and tending to other duties. Galen ventured out alone to take photographs. The resulting solitude and relative inactivity turned out to be a blessing, for during this reflective quiet, my separation from civilization felt most profound. My only companions were the side-blotched lizards.

Days that seemed the same and yet unique brought a timelessness to my existence. What had seemed inanimate around me came alive. I started talking to creatures that never understood what I said. Setting crackers and sardines out for the ravens became an offering to the gods. I became one with the rock itself.

Still, I eventually found myself battling restlessness like a disease. When it became unbearable, I wrapped a pair of long underwear figure-eight-style around my knee to brace it and strayed 50 yards or so from the confinement of the campsite.

On the fourth day, I felt strong enough to accompany Galen to explore more ruins sites. I couldn't descend the butte, but as long as I traveled level terrain, my knee would hold out.

More exhilarating than examining ruins was the search for clues regarding their purpose.

We detected a pattern to the building type and positioning of the ancient houses we photographed. Larger, multiple-unit buildings were situated below.

Above these, smaller, frequently single-house units were aligned with each other on successive levels, often following a steep ravine. Centuries ago, these houses would have been connected by wooden ladders, as well as long ropes. On every prominent point near the summit stood lookout towers where sentinels may have scanned the countryside below.

We found evidence of what looked to us like defensive structures. In one place, a housing site on a narrow shelf stood protected by a short wall pierced by a single window. Only one person at a time could pass by this wall. The drop from the shelf was sheer and deadly. I imagined a guard at the wall using a spear against an attacker, who would plummet, screaming, off the edge. We played out this scenario with Galen as the attacker and me defending the wall.

"These people were pressured by a hostile group," my brother conjectured. "They were forced higher and higher up the butte, and, in the end, even this refuge proved insufficient." Whatever the reason, around In A.D. 1400 the Sinaguans inexplicably abandoned their homes.

Another major house cluster stood underneath a cave hidden from the view of those below. What we guessed to be a crude altar

lay against one wall of the cave. Thick pieces

of pottery were concentrated around a section of a wall stained dark with desert varnish, suggesting that water runoff had been collected here in large clay pots. At various ruins we found similar shards and other artifacts, such as arrowheads and a spearpoint, which we were careful to observe and leave as they lay.

Other surprises awaited us. While crossing a bench beneath a hundred-foot cliff, we came upon a large slab of sandstone covered with petroglyphs, the only ones we'd seen in the area. We could discern two, perhaps three, figures, a curious blend of human and bird-a hawk or eagle perhaps-in the faint rock etchings.

"Maybe that old trickster, Raven," I suggested.

Hawks and eagles would be able to findfood, even this high up on the butte. Veryclose to the petroglyphs, Galen encountereda 5-foot-long whipsnake, marvelously thinwith cream-colored stripes running thelength of its body and rosy pink on itsunderside.

Awhile later, during the heat of the day,we decided to rest. After testing for hiddensnakes by carefully tapping all around aflat rock with my hiking poles, I sat down.Galen did the same. Almost immediately, atelltale rattling sound issued from beneathhis makeshift chair. Galen shot into the air.Peering from a safe distance, we spotted alarge blacktail rattlesnake nestled under thelip of the flat rock. Luckily for us, thisspecies usually remains docile.

On the fifth day, it became clear that myknee injury was putting us behind schedule.We would require a few additional days tofinish exploring the butte and shoot photographs of any more ruins that still remained undiscovered. Galen decided to resupply.

I agreed with him and watched him leavethe next morning. That evening, early summer monsoons once confined to the Rimreached out a bit farther than I'd expected.With lightning flashes dancing on the highcliffs to the north, and thunder echoing ominously, I took refuge with the lizards and apackrat family near ruins just upslope fromour camp. Not far to the west of me, anoverhang, much like the one I huddledunder, had collapsed onto a small house.Galen had a strong sense that Sinaguansmay have been killed and forever buriedbeneath the massive stone block.

"They might still be wearingtheir clothing and their sandalsand holding their bowls of groundcorn," he had mused.

As darkness descended, thethreatening storm receded. I atemy dinner in reverent silence, trying not to think about what wouldhappen if my brother failed toreturn. My active imaginationor could it have been the spirits ofthe ancestors who are said to hauntthese places?-played on mynerves. Could the overhang above mebe cracking? I wondered after hearing astrange sound from deep within the rock.Not wanting to end up like the inhabitants of Galen's "Buried House," I moved away from the overhang and returned to the tinaja. I felt at peace again and slept, no longer shaken by the superstitious dread that surely afflicts most intruders of ancient haunts.

Galen showed up the next morning no worse for wear, despite having again hauled his heavy pack up the butte. During the next couple of days, we completed exploring the butte's several tiers, my brother hanging from ledges and perching in trees to capture unique images of the various ruins. The time to leave came at last. My knee had healed with the aid of the sun's warmth.

Oddly enough, I felt happy to have injured it. Forced into stillness by chance, I sensed unity with a world I might otherwise have glimpsed only in passing. All EDITOR'S NOTE: The specific locations of the archaeological sites are intentionally not included, in an effort to protect them.

ADDITIONAL READING: For discovering more outdoor attractions, we suggest Sedona Call-ing: A Guide to Red Rock Country by Lawrence W. Cheek. Full of color photographs, this guidebook shows you the top recreational, cultural and historic choices for your per-sonal tour.

To order, call toll-free (800) 543-5432 or go online to arizonahighways.com.

Part-time Sedona resident Daniel Huntsinger has written screenplays, nonfiction books and novels. Tolerant of rebellious weather, midges, snakes and bees, Sedona resident Galen Huntsinger enjoys battling nature's extremes for the perfect shot of ancient ruins.

No water. We stood at the edge of the dry tinaja, staring blankly into our thirsty future. Two years ago in a much wetter season, my brother and I had been elated to find this shallow pool full.

Now, disappointment and want, not liquid sustenance, became our companions.

Three full 6-gallon jugs waited in our truck far below. Although we felt fatigued, we would have to unload our packs, descend the butte and haul two of these jugs to our camp under the summit ridge. The temperature was in the high 90s, and it was still morning.

Our earlier stay here had made us complacent, despite my twisted knee then. This time, things would be different: What was supposed to be a week-long trip to capture specific photographic images of the butte turned into an ordeal that lasted a month.

Mildly stated, conditions proved unfavorable. Wind and uncooperative clouds constantly plagued us. Wind quickly destroyed an umbrella that was to shield the camera from harsh light. Jet contrails -a photographer's nightmare - showed up at the most inopportune moments. Forest fires sprang up from Williams to Flagstaff. On days when the wind moved in our direction, the scenery disappeared, obscured by smoke. Entire days were spent waiting for a single evening shot. Everything seemed to conspire against us-even the insect world. We came to call May "the Month of Midges." The tenacious, biting bugs forced us to wear long shirts and pants in the extreme heat. We tried different types of insect repellent before finding one that worked for more than a few minutes at a time. Almost as unbearable as their biting was the incessant whine the midges produced. And there were other insect adversaries atop the butte.

Poised on the edge of a precipitous cliff late one afternoon, Galen heard a faint buzzing sound from below. "Do you hear that?" he asked. From roughly 30 feet farther up the summit ridge, I shook my head. "There it is again!" he yelled, peering over the ledge on which he was precari-ously perched. "It sounds like it's right underneath me."

This time I heard. A few seconds later, the buzzing became a loud hum. It seemed to be coming closer at an alarm-ing rate. Then it dawned on me.

TWO YEARS LATER

seemed to be coming closer at an alarm-ing rate. Then it dawned on me.

"Bees!" I shouted. "Run for it!"

Grabbing his 4x5 camera and tripod, Galen bounded away from the cliff edge and down the ridge, taking adrenaline-charged, superhuman strides on the loose slabs of yellow sandstone. I followed in his wake. The swarm of bees passed just behind us, coming straight up and over the butte and plunging imme-diately down the other side. After we stopped running, I realized I had been stung in the left thigh, but felt lucky to have escaped more serious harm.

Two other swarms forced us to flee or duck and cover behind rocks and trees. The approach of these swarms proved disconcerting because we could not tell how far away they were or from what direction they were coming until they practically surrounded us. The only thingwe could do was yell "Incoming!" and hit the deck. Both times the bees passed by without incident.

Galen was taking photographs on yet another overhang when a fly masquerading as a bee gave him a start. He briefly considered leaping back and racing downhill again with the camera, although how he could have done so, tied in as he was this time with climbing rope, is any-one's guess.

We visited all of our favorite ruins again and discovered a few more. Mush-room House, Turret House, Agave House, Two-Door House, Falling House, Lizard House, Buried House - our names for each one, initially merely identifying labels-became symbols of imagination and spirit. Snakes and lizards, ringtails and packrats, bats, hawks, ravens and swifts all paraded on or over the parched surface of the butte.

Patience and determination won out, and we managed, at last, to obtain the required shots. Despite all the problems we encountered and the discomforts we endured, I could tell Galen still did not want to leave. This time I did not share his sentiment. We had carried 36 gallons of water from the base of the butte to the top. And the job did not take one week; it took four.

We had come to recognize the hard lesson of being a wilderness landscape photographer: Nature poses for you only when she is good and ready.