Bears Ears XXI
2024-05-29
TWO FEET:
We’re in south-eastern Utah. We are leaving the ruin of an ancient complex, which still boast a tower. As we climb out of the canyon, I look back one last time.
The petroglyphs called “Two Feet” are ahead of us.
See the background to this story here:
I gave directions to the “Two Feet” petroglyphs to the couple that helped us find the towers. I warned, telling the story of our misleading pathway, there. As we are heading back on the main road, we hear their white truck coming up the main road in the distance. Once again, we scramble to cover up. DF is in just a shirt and me, a kilt wrapped around my waist, as we greet them. They have found the petroglyphs. They smile, telling us that they knew they were on the wrong level, when they saw our distinctive toe shoe’s prints.
They seem worried for us. From the Two Feet petroglyphs site, they could see and know how far and hard that we two old fogies have hiked.
They are insistent about giving us thin plastic bottles of cool water. We show them our bottles, but again they insist and offer us more. Perhaps their thinking is about the way that we are dressed. After all, we don’t have professional looking hiking garb protection and are left exposed to the harsh sun like seeming amateurs. I’m seeing how sales driven consumer propaganda has been brainwashing people away from their natural state and how these two look so overdressed to us.
The thought crosses my mind to assure them that we will be okay, because naked, we are naturally adapted to the heat. Grateful for their good nature, we don’t want to shock them and leave with a pleasant wave.
We’re returning to our natural state, as their truck heads up the hill’s road. We decide that there is no point in being concerned that they might be looking in a rear-view mirror. Again, we take our pleasure and prepare for the heat.
We continue to the path and visit the petroglyph site ourselves.
It leads us along a shelf with occasional rocks to climb over and encroaching pricker bushes.
These petroglyphs are deeply cut.
Exposed directly to the sun each afternoon and the elements, they have endured.
The big feet are next to a smaller pair and then smaller still. It reminds me of one of the car window-stickers of figures telling other drivers of the contents of the family inside. Perhaps that is all that this is, a family portrait, a monument.
We hear and then see a pair of ATV’s coming up the rougher part of the road. They stop at the trailhead leading to the petroglyphs. We wait, thinking that we might be dressing should they decide to explore the petroglyphs.
Time and their attitude tell us that we are not trapped. They are oblivious to our presence, as we walk secretly and naked a few feet behind them onto the road. I hear one say, “We’ll travel about a half a mile further and then visit a lookout, vista.” We now know that they will be busy for a while. We are not bothered during the rest of our decent.
The decent down the remnants of civilization is mostly in the afternoon sun, this time. There are old pieces of guard rails and drainage for rainwater flow.
I take another long look at the car wrecked so precariously and imagine a slippery rainy night, two high rolling cowboys, in decorated western boots and garb, drinking and flamboyantly taking their last risky decision. I have uneasy thoughts about them losing control on the bend of the road, weaving desperately and helplessly slipping off of the edge of a cliff. I can’t imagine slamming hard enough to rip off the heavy front of that big steel boat of a car, no seat belts back then. Did they fall out, or jump and escape fate?
Naked, the heat is comfortable, but it has been six hours of up and down with no breaks, but two 20 minute rests.
We are tired.
Back at camp exhausted, we sit in our chairs and rest with cold mineral water in hand. We take it easy for the rest of the day. There is no “To Do” list, just a guitar and a magazine. Also, in the shade, an occasional deep breath through the nostrils, takes in the lovely air that surrounds us all over.
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