I step down a series of dry, sand filled pour offs. It rained two days ago, but you wouldn’t know it. I merge onto the bovine highway that runs north to south at the base of the gently sloping wave of rock. Peering around the corner of the cliff my camp is perched upon, “texas 92” is etched into the delicate sandstone. Going to take a wild guess and say this is not the work of the ancestral Puebloans. Tip toeing rock to rock to avoid cryptobiotic soil, the lifeline for the desert, I come to the mouth of one of the many canyons along this wave. One of the few I have yet to travel in this area. A sliver of light comes through a narrow arch in the overhang. Looters have trampled this area into a form not too dissimilar from the bovine highway. Across the depression, a wall glows in the late afternoon sun. Streaks of white cross one another as if a child drew with their eyes closed. Some geologists may suggest otherwise. La Sal, Abajo, San Juan, La Plata, Ute, Carrizo, Chuska. I dream about this perch. A great place to lose track of time, and so I do. I toss a rock and count the seconds before the nearly inaudible sound of sand being cratered. Seven. Or maybe it was six. The opportunity to descend off the wave’s peak is rare on this side. I shimmy through an elongated triangle in the rock and sit under an overhang. Behind me there is one of the most flawless spirals carved into the wall. It’s one of my favorite petroglyphs to stumble on. They’re everywhere. Spirals and hands. The sun is going to set soon and I have to squint to see my camp. My stomach has yet to growl, so I make a pit stop to visit with a gnarled old juniper. There are four bear-hug sized trunks converging at a single trunk. They lean in different directions, hovering a foot or two off the ground, sturdy and alive. The harsh angles of it’s limbs are silhouetted by the sun, which continues to set, despite knowing I’m still squinting to see camp. The bovine highway is empty, as per usual, so I merge slowly and don’t even use my blinker. I walk with my hands pressed against my back, which never fails to be warm. Small wisps of sand lift off the tips of my shoes as I enter and exit the wash. The cold air remains low and I press my hands ever so slightly harder. Quinoa, hummus and olives are satisfying, but the sky is utterly intoxicating. Dusk for dessert. I leave for another walk.
