Mystical, (Spirit & Petroglyphs – the spirit is on the left side), watercolor, 22”x15” framed to 32”x24”, 1200.
For years we had heard stories about a wonderful, mystical location outside of Santa Fe, where UFOs landed, spirits wandered, and visions could be seen. Among others, artist Frank Howell went there for inspiration, we had been told. I absolutely had to go!
In town for the art opening reception at the gallery that represented us in Santa Fe, we had a couple of days of free time beforehand. I met my parents for breakfast at the Tecolate Cafe. Over steaming plates of huevos rancheros and blue corn/piñon pancakes, we discussed the location of the magical place.
“Do you think you know how to get there?” My dad asked.
“I believe it’s just a few miles south and east of town,” I replied, “and I think I’d recognize some of the landmarks.”
It turned out that he really wanted to go there, too, and had been making notes when other people talked about it. A mutual friend, artist Sharon J. Montgomery,
had contributed great stories about the place.
“Oh, Bert”, my mom pleaded. “Isn’t it on private property? What if you’re hurt? Do you even really know where you’re going?”
We decided to go immediately after we ate…
…which I thought was a hilarious ending to this little piece of my life. However, on FB, people commented that they wanted to hear:
THE REST OF THE STORY:
My mom was afraid to go with us, but she was even more afraid for us go without her. We pulled the car off the road, slightly under a patch of pinion, maybe some mesquite, about a mile before our destination. On foot, we crossed a dry creek bed. Although there was no water, the sandy gully was flooded with a thick crop of six-foot-tall cattails. To our delight, we observed a number of what we presumed to be Anasazi pottery shards among the parched crackles of earth. A small hill gradually emerged from the cane-like growth.
“This is as far as I’m going”, huffed my mom firmly. She made herself as comfortable as possible among the rocks and desert plants, in a dab of shade provided by one side of the hill. We smiled, waved, and told her we’d be back soon.
Our goal was the larger mesa about 500 feet away. As we grew nearer, the distinct scent of sage saturated the air. Rocks were becoming boulders, and the boulders that made up the base and bulk of the mesa were becoming gigantic climbing obstacles. Walking around and among the huge rocks, we took a sharp left turn and suddenly saw the first of the petroglyphs.
They were beautiful and it was worth the trip. Unfortunately -and shockingly- it appeared that less caring people had visited the site in recent days, leaving their own rock art. I understood the reason for the many ”no trespassing” signs. After our eyes, minds and souls were saturated with the many-centuries old drawings, we began making out way down the huge rocks and toward the hill where my mom was waiting.
Quietly lost in our own thoughts, we slowly descended. Suddenly my dad thumbed a motion toward the back of a boulder and whispered, ”Get down!” As we crouched and peaked from behind the rock, he pointed to a cowboy riding a horse through the cattails and toward us. We could see, even from a distance, that the fleet figure wore a hat, bandana, chaps and boots.
As he neared the mountain, the cowboy turned and rode around to the back of the mountain instead of where we were. Maybe he hadn’t seen us! We barely breathed and didn’t move. After a fairly l o n g period of silence, we decided to continue down the mountain.
The second we emerged from behind our boulder, we heard a loud, ”Thar y’ar!!” Looking towards the source of the shout, we saw the cowboy, still on his horse, looking down upon us from about 30 feet above on the top of that mountain.
The horse, carefully picking his way down, brought the cowboy closer. Not saying another word, the cowboy gestured for us to walk down, which we meekly did. He continued on horseback to follow us until we were almost to the little hill where my mom was waiting. At that moment my dad pointed wordlessly to a small group of people who were about a quarter mile away, who were approaching that same mountain but from another direction.
“Keep walking!” the cowboy ordered us, as he jabbed his forefinger toward the highway. He turned and galloped off to thwart the next group of trespassers.
My dad and I were having an opening reception for our art show at Joan Cawley Gallery the next evening. I was SO very grateful that our picture and the story of our arrest weren’t going to be in the Santa Fe Reporter in the morning!!
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