Rock and Ruin

Leif Johnson
5 min readJan 10, 2024

Sandstone walls and the smell of sagebrush. Cold air fills the canyon as I walk with hands in pockets, a sandy ribbon of creek bottom hushing each step and leading the way. Where exactly I’m being led, I don’t know. The goal was to search for rock art and ruins in this canyon whose name I don’t know, but they could be anywhere. In fact, I’m sure I’m within feet of something right now, I just can’t see it.

Towering walls the texture of elephant skin close in as I move upstream. The air rings with stillness. Bobcat tracks pock the sandy bottom along with the faded mark of a dirt bike. The thought of the machines two-stroke whine shattering this silence comes and goes.

Rocks the size of cars begin to fill the stream bed growing bigger with each bend. Walls close in until the bottom is only twenty or thirty feet wide, completely filled with boulders. There’s no way to continue except to climb.

Most canyons out here have a significant headwall at one point or another and I’m sure this one will be no different. Any moment now I anticipate seeing the cliffed ending that will force me to turn around, but each corner beckons me further and every successful rock I manage to climb emboldens me more.

Deep caverns start to appear beneath boulders. I peer into their shadows half expecting to spook a tenant, maybe a mountain lion or a fox, but nothing stirs. The climbing starts to get more technical, and my bulky bag hits the back of my head as I climb, throwing off my balance and bringing my fear of heights into sharp relief. I wedge myself into a crack, palms sweating as I shimmy up to the next ledge. My pack scrapes against rock with the sound of sandpaper and my pocketknife clip grinds into the stone as I hunt for grip.

After maybe a quarter mile of scrambling I finally hit a bouldering problem I’m not comfortable with. But my eagerness to see beyond won’t let me turnaround yet so I ditch the ditch climbing up the side, grabbing juniper roots and rock edges to scale the steep, loosely soiled slope.

From this new vantage point, I can see the end of the canyon, and there’s no way out. The stream bottom meets a fifty-foot plunge down sheer rock walls forming a U-shaped amphitheater. How spectacular it would be to see this place flood during monsoon season. I hold my breath and listen to the ringing stillness once again. Windblown shrubs sway silently. Only the distant conversation of ravens bends my ear drums. Scanning the massive walls surrounding me I spot something unnatural on the far side. A square. After taking photographs with my telephoto lens and zooming in I can see its ruin, a wall with an opening clinging to a tiny cave entrance. Scanning its surrounds and any possible approach leaves me in awe. There’s no way I could ever get there, let alone build something on that precarious face.

My fear of heights often clashes with my love for adventure.

Looking at the map on my phone, my blue dot is right next to a road. Apparently, it sits just above the drop, and according to the map it would lead me right back to my car. I’ve come this far and to go all the way back down only to have to climb out again seems undesirable at best, especially when I’m so close to a route back. I decide to look around for another exit. Soil and loose rock give way underfoot as I traverse the steep hillside at the base of the cliff face.

Looking 360 degrees around me, I see danger in every direction. Each view presents me with a new way to hurt myself. Broken bones and twisted ankles from steep slopes, and boulder fields. Cacti and poked eyes. Threats are everywhere and my body is humming, a nervous alertness sending my limbs tingling with anticipation. This is when I start to stress, when I no longer trust my limbs to execute. I look down the canyon at the route I took to get here and dread going back when I know it will take me at least a couple hours.

Scanning the steep slope beneath my feet I wonder if I can keep skirting this hillside until an opening presents itself further along. I wouldn’t have to retrace my steps, but then again, I may have to retrace them even further if that doesn’t pan out.

The more I longingly search for an alternative the more obvious it becomes, it’s too dangerous. No cell service and not a bipedal soul for miles. Don’t push your luck. “You still have your legs,” I think to myself. “You haven’t hurt yourself yet, so just walk back out the way you came.”

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Leif Johnson
Leif Johnson

Written by Leif Johnson

Wildlife biologist turned writer. This is my library of ramblings on everything from conservation to noisy neighbors.

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