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Birds sing me awake, as the sun brings the first
hint of red to the canyon walls.
I spread my map on the camp table, slurp strong
tea, munch toast smeared with peanut butter and
apricot jam.
A large branch of Lost Canyon, aptly named for
its labyrinthine structure, catches my eye. Have
I been there before? The faint memory of a wash
surrounded by high walls, a rush of water surging
behind me from a sudden thunder shower, a race to
the safety of a ledge. Yes, I've been there, but
the flash flood made it impossible to explore.
Today, the sky is bright blue, cloudless; no thunderstorms
threaten. Utah's canyon lands get but four inches
of rain a year.
Two trail hours later, deep into Lost Canyon, my
companions and I come to the branch we are seeking.
A fight through 100 yards of brush leads to an open
twenty-foot wide wash that meanders through stands
of black bush and sage. No water, no human footprints;
steep canyon walls. The wash, a dry streambed scrubbed
free of brush by flash floods, is the sole pathway
to the head of the canyon.
A mile up the wash someone calls out, "Look,
there, on the left wall, just below the rim."
I look, not for a ruin, but for a rectangular shadow,
the darkness of a doorway on the bright canyon wall.
Spotting the doorway helps me to see the near invisible
structure blended into the wall by the Anasazi.
It once housed corn grown on the flats near the
wash. Built with flat stones, I can see indentations
where fingers pressed mud between the stones to
cement them in place. I feel it might have been
my fingers that just yesterday pressed this mud.
Inside, in the dim light, are arrowhead chips, pottery
shards and small corncobs. Above the ruin is a pictograph
of a human figure, painted more than one thousand
years ago.
We search for a route onto the canyon rim, where
more structures are likely to be hidden. In 1200
A.D., a drought brought the end of agriculture in
this area. The few viable communities that survived
built new shelters high up on the canyon walls to
protect their crops, and themselves, from nomadic
bands, from those whose fields had failed.
When we reach the top, someone says: "Look,
over there."
I look and see three shadowy doorways. Next to
one of the ruins, firewood is laid out as if prepared
for tonight's fire, as if we have just returned
from the hunt.
Thirsty, tired, caked with dried sweat, we begin
our return to camp.
On the way, someone says: "Did you hear that
Martin has lung cancer?"
Martin-he hiked with us here once. I search my
memory for his face, see only shadows of the man.
We were acquainted, but not close.
Our talk goes to things we remember about him.
When was he here with us? Did he smoke? Was there
a wife?
Like the Anasazi, just bits and pieces of the man
emerge from shadow-the pottery shards and corncobs
of a full life.
I wonder, when our time comes, will we too merely
be as shadows to each other?
campfire talk-
light flickers among
the shadows
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