tioned this ruin, and I was curious to learn more about it. "A few days later I flew back over <strong>the</strong> same route, circled <strong>the</strong> spot where numerous canyons play out into <strong>the</strong> open desert and <strong>the</strong> sandstone shows ages <strong>of</strong> erosion. After several tries, I finally got <strong>the</strong> right angle and caught sight <strong>of</strong> <strong>the</strong> ruins again." Art Green, who had accompanied his son on <strong>the</strong> flight, took up <strong>the</strong> story. "It was a neat little group," he said, "but not even Joe Muench will ever get inside <strong>of</strong> that cave to take pictures. Those houses are located under an overhang at least 150 feet below <strong>the</strong> rim <strong>of</strong> <strong>the</strong> cliff, and it is ano<strong>the</strong>r 100 feet straight down to <strong>the</strong> floor <strong>of</strong> <strong>the</strong> canyon." An hour and two rounds <strong>of</strong> c<strong>of</strong>fee later, we were still trying to talk our way into <strong>the</strong> cave, and miles <strong>of</strong> slickrock that guard it were keeping us out. Bill had some objection to <strong>of</strong>fer for every plan that was suggested. It seemed to boil down to <strong>the</strong>se hard facts: From below, supposing one could get to <strong>the</strong> canyon, <strong>the</strong>re was no way up <strong>the</strong> face <strong>of</strong> <strong>the</strong> cliff without mountain climbing equipment and experience. That was out, for we were not qualified even if we had <strong>the</strong> tools. From above, <strong>the</strong> overhang would take a man on a rope out much too far— just swinging in air, with nothing to land on. Anyway, where on that slickrock could you anchor a rope? A car couldn't climb over that expanse <strong>of</strong> rolling, irregular sandstone, even if it proved suitable as a "deadman." Then George Parker spoke up. "If you really want to get those pictures, Joe, I think we could do it with my power wagon and winch. I have 1000 feet <strong>of</strong> steel cable." Sprague threw ano<strong>the</strong>r log on <strong>the</strong> fire and our enthusiasm flared up with <strong>the</strong> flames. By midnight, we had worked out a plan <strong>of</strong> action to <strong>the</strong> last detail. Next morning Bill, George and Joe took <strong>of</strong>f in <strong>the</strong> plane to scout out an overland route from <strong>the</strong> post to <strong>the</strong> ruins. At strategic points along <strong>the</strong> way <strong>the</strong>y threw out rolls <strong>of</strong> paper, and <strong>the</strong>se "bombs" opened in mid-air and spread a long white trail on <strong>the</strong> ground. Then, in <strong>the</strong> clear, cold air an hour later, <strong>the</strong> whole party started <strong>of</strong>f, armed with <strong>the</strong>rmos jugs <strong>of</strong> c<strong>of</strong>fee, ropes, lunch, some old tires and immense enthusiasm. We went in two cars, <strong>the</strong> lumbering power wagon and our ranch wagon. The road toward Chinle is crossed by numerous tracks. Some lead to distant hogans, some are trails bulldozed for a hydrographic survey and o<strong>the</strong>rs just wander <strong>of</strong>f in this or that direction. There were a number <strong>of</strong> false starts before we hit one that looked promising. Joe recalled seeing a wooden house, minus part <strong>of</strong> its ro<strong>of</strong>, from <strong>the</strong> air; Bill had three empty hogans on a hill in mind, and George was watching for a conspicuous knob on Black Mesa to come into correct perspective. With <strong>the</strong>se landmarks we located our white markers and headed toward a point, about 20 miles from Rough Rock, where <strong>the</strong> sandstone swells up to a series <strong>of</strong> rounded domes. When <strong>the</strong> ranch wagon had gone as far as possible in <strong>the</strong> rough terrain, we all got into <strong>the</strong> power wagon and drove ano<strong>the</strong>r five miles to a sweeping overlook. It took ano<strong>the</strong>r hour on foot to pin-point <strong>the</strong> canyon and <strong>the</strong> cave. George maneuvered <strong>the</strong> truck into a rock hollow, hoping to find some shelter from a sharp wind that had suddenly sprung up, but <strong>the</strong>re was no escape from <strong>the</strong> biting gusts. I can't remember when I have been colder. During <strong>the</strong> balance <strong>of</strong> <strong>the</strong> day we reconnoitered <strong>the</strong> area, finding that it would be possible to head <strong>the</strong> canyon Top photograph, opposite page — George Parker's power wagon is parked on rolling slickrock high above <strong>the</strong> distant desert floor. Near here is <strong>the</strong> prehistoric ruin. Bottom—George Parker begins his descent into <strong>the</strong> canyon <strong>of</strong> <strong>the</strong> ruin. Tires prevent <strong>the</strong> steel cable from cutting into <strong>the</strong> s<strong>of</strong>t sandstone. i 8 DESERT MAGAZINE
AUGUST, 1957 19