2024-06-04
We had been up with the sun, yet here we are still getting a later start. This time however, the timing is best later in the morning. We’re heading for The House on Fire ruins. It faces away from the morning sun, now. We’d like to arrive when the refection of the sunlight on red rock makes the roof of the ruins look like fire.
It is a short hike, just maybe 30 minutes, a quick mile or so and there is no slope each way.
We grab a fee to pay for this more popular site, but when we arrive, there is no bucket at the trailhead. There is just one car. The trail registry says two people. This is good, very good, good potential. We may have things to ourselves, instead of the shuffle of too many tourists. There had been a half a dozen cars when we passed by during the previous afternoon.
We carefully make our way down a slope and into dense foliage accented with various red soils, sand and rock. As we walk along, the evident path is comfortably shaded, off and on. We haven’t gone far, just minutes, when we bump into an older couple. They are from Germany in full hiking regalia. He reports “very nice” in a very thick accent. She is silent. By her demeanor, I suspect that she is not confident in our foreign language. Helpful and beaming, nearly giddy, as if he had just visited something of memorable awe, he states, “20 minutes, follow the wash.” They disappear down the trail toward the trailhead. One car, two people heading back to it, so I know that nobody is ahead. My kilt is quickly off and it feels so wonderful. The air is beautiful and I’m feeling lucky. I didn’t expect this.
Curiously, when we arrive at the ruins, there is no clear trail for such a popular remarkable spot. We must climb through a tangle of bush and roots on a sharp slope and then up a bare rock slope. There they are, still in the shade, several stone masonry structures, connecting the lips of a rock floor and ceiling. We drop daypack and water bottles. We plan to hang out for a while, waiting for photo opportunity.
The ceiling is everything that the pictures have purported. There is a chipped strata of red and yellow tones that rise up, suggesting fire. It is massive and beautiful. DF playfully sings a phrase from a song. It sticks in my head, inspired by this sense of flame, “We don’t need no water let the MF burn, burn MF, burn.” The crude tune from the 1990’s has lost its anger. It is joyous excitement.
The Free Range Naturist 