has long served as a landmark
in the desert. From a distance,
it brings to mind the jagged
teeth in a coyote’s skull. One is
etched with Indian petroglyphs
– circles, hash marks and
squiggles. I wonder at their
meaning. At another, a large
overhanging rock creates a wel-
coming shelter.
The remains of a stacked
stone wall further define the
space. Inside, there are ancient
stone metates used to grind
mesquite beans or grains.
I think of the women who
lived here over the centuries.
As they worked, perhaps they
gazed across the desert toward
Santa Elena Canyon, the dra-
matic cleft in the distant cliffs,
waiting for loved ones to
return from a battle or hunt.
Their lives must have been rid-
dled with tedium and hard-
ship. I hope there were also
moments of pleasure, comfort
and awe – the last warm rays of
a winter evening’s sun, a spot
of midday shade in summer,
the sight of a thundercloud
taller than the mountains and
wider than the desert.
We continue past the
Chimneys, on toward Peña
Spring.
The surrounding area is cut
with washes that channel water
rushing off the nearby hills and
mountains.
They are dry today, but the
monsoon rains finally came
this fall, a welcome respite after
many years of drought.
The week before our arrival,
there was even a substantial
snow. I expect there will be a
spectacular wildflower display
come spring.
In the meantime, I’m
stunned to find a few bright
red blooms atop the spindly
sticks of ocotillo.
The large, vase-shaped
shrubs otherwise look dead.
Their common name,
coachwhip, speaks of cruelty,
but these days the branches are
more often used as fencing. In
the spring, after ample rains,
they are plush with small,
green leaves.
These are quickly shed
when the weather turns dry.
It’s a good approach to chal-
lenging times – sacrifice
growth and hunker down in
order to survive.
On our return, the sun is
setting behind us. Evening
turns the Chisos Mountains
purple in the distance, the
color echoed in the clumps of
prickly pear cactus scattered
along the trail.
We startle up flocks of
black-throated sparrows and
multiple coveys of quail. Our
presence sends them twittering
and clucking into the scrub.
A Northern harrier
skims the prickly
brush, looking for
one last meal
to sustain him
through the cold
descending with
the night.
I spot a rock
cairn painstakingly
arranged in the
shape of a heart. I’d
missed it on the
way in. Carefully
selected sticks are
laid out in the cen-
ter to form a capi-
tal C. An early
Valentine?
An
ephemeral memo-
rial? A note for a
fellow hiker?
The
intent
remains as cryptic
as the petroglyphs,
but I do know this:
After thousands of
years, we’re still
inspired to leave
our special mes-
sages in the desert.
Another day, while hiking
the Mule Ears trail, I will
notice unusual markings on a
large, sprawling prickly pear
cactus. It appears someone has
used a pocketknife to slash a
line and gouge two holes in
one of the pads.
The wounds have healed,
leaving a smiley face. I nor-
mally frown upon defacing a
protected, even sacred place,
but in that moment, for a
moment, I return the smile. I
then continue on my way, step
by step, along the rocky trail.
Hebert’ s
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(Entrance on Jackson)
432.837.3225
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First Quarter 2019
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