Cliff Dwellers and The Econolodge

Oscar and I whine about the hotel. "It's too expensive!" he says.

Wuh-oh. The road between Durango and Pagosa Springs.

Dude. It snowed.

Standing in Balcony House.

Climbing out of Balcony House.

Kivah.

Cliff dwelling at Mesa Verde.

Pretty Mesa.

Joshua pointing out the Ute Mountains from Fire Lookout.

View from the tallest point on Mesa Verde.

May Day, 2011

The drive from Durango to Mesa Verde National Park is less than 40 miles, but once inside the park, it's another 20 minute drive to the Far View Visitor Center.

Joshua, my champion husband and driver extraordinaire, steered us easily over the hills into mesa land. Behind us the mountains grow smaller, and in front of us, the horizon spills on and out forever. Joshua jokes that Colorado is the best compromise for the two of us; he loves the high mountain peaks, and I love the desert Southwest. I object, saying I love the mountains just as much as he does.

"Yeah," he says, "but would you rather live in Cortez or Poncha Springs?" Neither city is particularly lovely, and while Cortez sits in dry mesa land, Poncha Springs rests in the Arkansas Valley. Joshua has proved his point. There's something about blue sky, desert, and torquiose jewelry that just gets me.

I've been to Mesa Verde once before when my mom took David and I after my Sophomore year of high school. I wanted to bring Joshua back to this magical place. The sky is blue again this morning, and as we make our way up to the highest point on the mesa, we can see a 360 degree panorama.

Up at Fire Lookout, we point out the mountain ranges dotting the horizon. In the distance, we can see Shiprock. The Anasazi Indian say that this strange rock formation is the remains of a bird. To the East, a smokestack signals the meeting of the Four Corners of Utah, New Mexico, Arizona, and Colorado. It's a clear day, and we can see for nearly 170 miles.

We drive on to the visitors center, where we purchase tickets to go see the Balcony House. Joshua starts salivating over the history stuff, and for once, we're both interested. Usually, I'm bored to tears by the whoseits and whatsits and whensits, but when it comes to Native American and cultural history, I'm more interested. Plus, they had jewelry on display. I'm such a girl :)

Our tour isn't for another hour, so we drive up and stop to look at pithouses and other cliff dwellings. 1400 years ago, the Anasazi moved in and began living in the alcoves of the mesa walls. Later, they began to build pithouses on the rim. They began growing corn, squash, and beans on the mesa, and their ability to grow and store food allowed them to stay in one place. 700 years ago, they began building these fabulous cliff dwellings, and then, abruptly, they left.

When Anthropologists ask the modern-day Hopi and Pueblan people why their ancestors might have left, they say, "it was time." When they ask how their ancestors might have known it was time, they say, "nature told them."

By the time we gather above the Balcony House, the weather has changed again, and snowflakes are drifting down. We follow our guide down a long flight of stairs and pass through a tunnel into the cliff dwelling. Located in the layer of sandstone, the cliff dwellings are a combination of carved caves, brick masonry, and wooden timbers. We admire kivas, and of course, the famous balcony. The tour guide tells us that the Anasazi would not have relied on ladders or stairways; instead, they used climbing trails, toe and peck holds to climb up vertical walls. I try to imagine old grandmothers and small children climbing up the sheer walls of this mesa wall. I get vertigo just imagining it.

On the other side of the house, we climb up a series of ladders, and I make myself look down into the deep valley below, just to test my fear of heights. I'm not terrified, but I don't think that I'll be taking up rock climbing any time soon.

Back up at the top, we drive to the Spruce Tree House, a cliff dwelling that's open to visitors without a tour guide. They've recreated a kiva roof, and we climb down the ladder to the circular room below, imagining a place of prayers and a family sleeping. It's warmer here, and with a fire, it might even be cozy.

Joshua requests a walk out to pictograph point, and we skirt the mesa wall, half way between the rim and the valley below. A couple miles out, we stop to admire the petroglyphs that narrate the migration of the Anasazi, and then we turn back. It begins to snow harder, and now that we've been at Mesa Verde for five hours, we decide it's time to head back to Durango.

On our way back, snow begins to accumulate on the road and in the hills. The wind is blowing hard. When we get to Durango, we stop at Dairy Queen, just to be contrary. I order my standard chocolate dipped cone, and Joshua orders a blizzard. We sit in the parking lot of Walgreens and dread camping in the snow. It might not be any colder than any of our previous nights, but there's just something about a few inches of snow outside the fabric walls of a tent that makes things significantly less attractive.

We head back to our campsite, and sure enough, there's a few glittering inches of snow. I refuse to get out of the car. "I think I'll just read in here," I say.

Joshua goes over to the tent to shake off the snow and contemplate the long night ahead. He comes back.

"Let's drive home," he says. We had planned to drive home tomorrow anyway. "What's the difference between driving back tonight or tomorrow? At least if we drive back tonight, we won't freeze, and we'll get to sleep in our own bed."

It doesn't take much to persuade me. I'm NOT a fan of winter camping. Winter camping blows, and I don't care how wussy that sounds. I've only really done it once, and since it gets dark at, like, 4 PM, that leaves approximately 14 hours to freeze your ass off inside a tent. Talk about miserable.

So we break camp and hop in the car. The snow's stopped, and we're feeling good.

About ten mile out of Durango headed towards Pagosa Springs, it starts to snow again. Hard. Joshua looks over at me nervously. "At least it's still light outside," he says.

Twenty minutes later, the sun has begun to set, and it's snowing even harder. It's snowing really, really, really hard, actually.

It's snowing so hard that it takes us nearly three hours to cover 60 miles, as it turns out. Joshua is clutching the steering wheel the whole way, cursing our decision. We going about 20 miles per hour, and there's a line of about 30 cars behind us. I reassure him that we're not about to die. He's pretty hard to convince, but I tell him that I think it's rare to die when you're going just 20 miles per hour.

In Pagosa Springs, we pull into the parking lot of Subway. If we were to drive home tonight, there are three more passes to go over, and all of them are at much higher elevations than the one we passed going from Durango to Pagosa Springs. There's no way. I suggest we sleep in the parking lot of Subway. Joshua tells me to unclench. We're going to a hotel.

At the Econolodge, I plug my ears and squeeze my eyes shut when Joshua pays for our room.

Denial works out pretty well, because within 20 minutes, I'm taking my first shower in five days. I have to get back in dirty clothes afterward, but non-greasy hair gets me in a better mood instantly. Joshua's turned on the T.V., and apparently, we've shot Osama Bin Laden.

"Huh," we say, and stare at the screen. Obama comes on and gives us all the 411, and then the cameras turn to the screaming, celebrating crowd in front of the White House. The whole thing leaves a bad taste in my mouth. I'm not saying that I'm sad Bin Laden's dead, but celebrating death is strange. I'm not a pacifist; nor am I entirely against the idea of the death penalty (although I AM against the disproportionate racial breakdown that occurs when the death penalty is carried out). But as I watch a bunch of drunk students from George Washington scream "Ding Dong Osama's Dead," I can't help but think, "an eye for an eye leaves everyone blind."

After Obama walks off the screen, I turn off the T.V. and fall asleep, warm at last.