Many Hands

 

Photo credit: Robsalot (that's me!)

It was a hot day, and a big climb, but we were promised glistening pools of water, fed by sparkling waterfalls that tumbled into fern lined canyons. It would be worth it, the guides said, the most beautiful place on the whole river, just make sure you take plenty of water to drink.

I took it slow, brining up the rear with the guide assigned to follow the stragglers (which was me, it was always me). She was nice though. Kira was her name, she couldn’t have been more than 25, tall and lanky like an elk, with feet like a mountain goat, it was as if she had been raised scaling these red rocks in the desert heat. And yet here she was, poking slowly up with me, pulling my ass up the trickier parts, and all the while making pleasant small talk. It was what made a good wilderness guide, I supposed.

I tried not to feel badly about slowing the group down as we summited yet another ledge. I stood there for a moment, hiding in a sliver of shade provided by the outcropping of the next rock shelf hanging above us.

“Only a few more left before we enter the slot canyon,” Kira said chirpily

I unscrewed the cap from my Nalgene and took a swig of my desert warmed water.

“Okay,” I replied, “let’s do this.”

Sure enough, after a few more scrambles up what felt like sheer rock faces, we turned the corner into a mercifully shaded canyon. The space was narrow, with just enough room for a trail  that was perched over a creek flowing down the slot far below. I walked slowly on, conscious of the consequences of a missed step, though I was also savoring the relative cool of the canyon.

“Hey Jenny!” Kira bubbled up behind me.

“Yeah?” I replied, turning carefully to face her.

“Check out the wall of the canyon on the other side of the creek.”

I looked over, to the sheer red wall of rock across the dizzying depths of the niche carved by the bubbling creek far below us. I studied the wall, but couldn’t figure out what I was missing. Was this another geology lesson? Did she want me to appreciate the difference in the layers of rock (that frankly all looked the same to me, but apparently were slowly built up over eons).

“The hands,” she said, apparently picking up on my confusion, “do you see them?”

And then I did, outlines of hands, hundreds of them, decorated the wall.

“But how?” I replied.

“The Anasazi Indians. We think it was some kind of ritual, or perhaps just showing off for their friends, they would leap over the slot, their hands covered in paint, and leave the prints before bouncing off the wall safely back to the trail.”

“Well fuck that shit,” I replied. And we both stood there in silence, marveling about the people who were here before us, and this canyon they called home.