We bid a somber farewell to the old man.
“So long, Dad,” says the man in front of me as he sets off away from the campsite.
It’s all I can do to keep up with my father. His legs are considerably longer than mine and equally more experienced. It wouldn’t be so bad, had we not forsaken the trail miles ago. It’s hard to say exactly where we are, could be anywhere in Northern New Mexico. The arid landscape is defined by scars and drainages, remnant of ancient waterflow.
“I think they’re up here,” my father says.
“Dad, this looks like the most difficult way out of the canyon.”
“You’re right,” he says, allowing a smile to escape from behind his thick, brown beard. “Maybe there’s a reason that Patrick has made it his principal rule to ‘never follow the Halls’. Looks awful fun though, don’t you think? Besides, sometimes the hard way has the most to offer.”
We laugh together and begin our ascent. Truly, this is the most difficult thing I’ve ever done. My legs ache and my throat is dry as a bone. At times, I feel like quitting; this is not a place where people are meant to be. The desert sun berates us with a heat that seems as if it could temper steel. We exchange no words, beyond my father’s simple navigational instructions.
“Careful bud, that rock won’t hold you.”
"If you don't put on some sunscreen, your mom will have my hide."
He’s learned how to read the landscape through many years of trekking and blundering himself. And now, he’s passing that on to me. With the passage of each obstacle, I become more confident. Along with a few slips and stumbles of my own, some more severe than others, I find myself keeping up more easily as our hike continues.
Finally, we discover an oasis. A desert spring, staining the rock with heavy alkali metals. We fill our canteens and drink liberally. It’s hard to say when we’ll get a reliable source of water again.
“Before the advent of Gin, Gallina man drank here” my father says. “That’s what the old archaeological journals say, at least. Not really all that politically correct, thinking on it now. Thank the land it’s here, anyways, I was getting mighty thirsty.”
“Is that who lived here before? The Gallina?”
“Well Bud, that’s the Spanish name for them. It’s hard to say what they called themselves. They were wiped out long before the Europeans showed up here, and with a great deal of prejudice too. Someone came in and stuck them full of arrows. Now the only people who know anything about them are the archaeologists and the looters, which is really a shame. They might tell us something if we listen close enough.”
“That’s where we’re headed now, did you think I’d make you come all the way out here for no reason? They lived in towers, perched on the pinnacles of these mesas. If you look out at each cliff with a reasonable overlook of the canyon, you’ll be able to find one.”
A glance around reveals the truth in his words. I’d been so focused on the climb that I’d forgotten to consider anything else. Before I can express my surprise, my dad is on his feet.
“Let’s get to camp before the sun goes down, these old bones need some time to settle in.”
Cooler temperatures and an increasingly shallow gradient allow for more leisurely routefinding. Besides that, a trail presents itself to us, likely the one used by Gallina man to collect his water. The trail leads us up and past one of the great Gallina towers onto the beautiful Mesa Golondrina. Signs of life are everywhere here. The Elk leaves a gift for whoever might want it, a gilded crown, his shed antlers. The Bear scars the occasional tree, a friendly reminder that she respects us expects the same in return. Most imposing of all, I see the skeletal remains of the long forgotten Gallina civilization.
“You know dad, we’re in the middle of freakin’ nowhere. This must be what they call God’s Country.”
“You could say that, but I think I’d prefer to say that this is God Country. A very slight difference, I know, and I’m not so sure it’s really a difference at all. Either way, we can appreciate that not many people are dumb enough to follow us out here. The hard work keeps the riff-raff out.”
We set up camp in the forest, about a quarter of a mile from the canyon’s rim to seek protection from the wind. Unlike most of the forested areas in the United States, which have been damaged by lack of forest fires and abundance of logging, this one was untouched by man and incredibly healthy. We eat a very simple dinner of meat and potatoes, seasoned by salt, pepper and the ravenous appetite we’d earned on our trek. My old friend Ed would argue that hunger is the best sauce of all. Climbing into my sleeping bag, I barely have the chance to enjoy the quiet sounds of the desolate place we’ve made our home before a swift and heavy fatigue seizes me. I’m asleep before I can even get comfortable.
In the morning I wake up and eat the breakfast that my dad has already prepared. He’s already been up and gone for a hike this morning. I pull on my boots and get ready for the trail.
“Why don’t you go on without me today, Bud? I’m not quite as young as I used to be, you know. Not that I couldn’t sill whup a kid like you.”
“Are you sure? I’m not sure I’ll know where to go.”
“Don’t worry about that, Son. Just make sure you take a good look around and trust your compass. Walk sometimes, run when you have to, and sit when you get the chance. Have some fun too, while you're at it.”
With that, I hug my father and set off down the ancient trail.
