I had a recent opportunity to see Chaco Canyon on my travels to New Mexico. It is a stunning cluster of archaeological ruins believed to have been the cultural center and spiritual gathering place of the Anasazis.
I was cautioned that traversing the road was questionable in the winter. The last eight miles of the two hour journey is a rutted, washboard dirt road that might be too icy or muddy for safe passage. We might be unable to negotiate the washes that look deceptively shallow and hide deep sandy bottoms. But we still wanted to try.
We set out on a bright wintery day, driving nowhere, past adobes and coyotes and distant mesas freckled with snow. The wind blew a hazy glaze of snow across the expansive valley. I took pictures of the etched landscape as we turned toward Chaco and made our way miles along paved road, past the Visitor's Center and Museum, and onto the dirt. No one had come.
The truck groaned and swayed as we struggled to gauge the road ahead, aligning the tires to catch hold of whatever was there, ice or mud. We would slow down and speed up, turn sharply, readjust, bump and slide in the mud. We fought to keep the tires on the best part of the road, not getting bogged down in the ruts of those that had gone before.
The mud splashed over us, covering the windows and hood, condensing our view to where the wipers had been. Everything else dropped away but the solitude of our thoughts as we snaked along this dirt road into the horizon.
We celebrated dry, smooth patches and maneuvered the rest, gaining confidence with each passing mile. When we came upon a cautionary sign to not ford a running wash, we studied each other as we gunned the engine and forged ahead. As the ruins came into view, I saw what I know no Anasazi had seen: a completely solitary view of this magnificent place.
Chaco Canyon. This is a reverent place, a place where a developed civilization worshipped the glory of their god. Here, I walked among the ruins and touched the resting place of gigantic boulders that had long ago encroached in their world. Here, my feet walked their paths and I witnessed a few smaller rocks breaking free from the cliffs and crumble to earth. Here, I stood in their world for a while, imagining and celebrating their lives, wanting to know them.
Looking out as far as the eye could see, I thought about the ruts in the road. There is great worthiness in pushing on past difficult passages that arise to discover undiscovered places. Taking the rough road draws depth and meaning we would otherwise miss. We discover that, as we adventurously travel back roads, we savor the effort to get there as much as the beauty we find. What better way to be reminded of this than by feeling the warmth of a hand who helped me rediscover the magic of that.
NMcC
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