Loss and discovery and some place in New Mexico

The waning half moon, lying on its side, was rising north of east. Masked behind a thin veil of winter clouds that reflected back the clutter of city lights, it looked a dirty brown. It was an ugly moon.

I considered it a sign - that the few remaining hours of this painful year promised no kindness.

December 31, 2004

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May 8, 2004. I screamed inside my helmet the entire way back. I cried some, but mostly I screamed. For three or four hours, with the needle pushing 100 and the road blurring by. I was riding home. Home to tell my best friend’s wife, his son, his daughter, his brother, his parents – that he had died that morning in a motorcycle accident on a quiet Arkansas highway.

It was a beautiful day, the kind that comes along in early May with a deep blue sky and bright cotton clouds. When I said goodbye to Rick, I left a yellow wildflower on his broad, still chest. I looked up at the beautiful sky spinning with clouds. I’ve wondered since then, hoped, that he caught a final glimpse of that perfect May sky.

Funny things happen when you lose someone you love. Time and place and direction seem to shift, out of normal alignment, and yet somehow things seem in sharper focus. Colors look brighter, for a while anyway.

There are many dots in life, seemingly incongruous, unrelated, uninteresting dots. For a while I was acutely aware of the dots. And more, I sensed that somehow the dots were connected. I started to join simple events, people, places, things I saw, songs I heard, into something larger. Not something random, but something with design.

May turned to June. I marked the passing of days, then weeks, then months.

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I don’t remember exactly when I saw the documentary. I was flipping through TV channels and stopped on a PBS show about the prehistoric Pueblo ruins at Chaco Canyon in New Mexico. They were discussing a great north road. These ancient Americans had taken massive effort to build a wide, arrow-straight road, running north from Chaco for 35 miles. The road was as wide as a modern highway, but seems to have had little or no utilitarian purpose. It seemingly has no practical destination and terminates abruptly at the mouth of a badland canyon. Broken pottery shards cover the canyon floor below. It was interesting, but I didn’t think any more of it at the time.

Doorways, Chaco Canyon

November rolled around and my birthday. My good friend Shane took me out for a beer. Sitting at the bar, I started talking with the girl next to me. She said she was from Spring Hill, Kansas. Spring Hill? I asked if she knew my buddy, Ryan? Her face changed. No, I hadn’t heard. When? How? All she knew was that he had died in an avalanche several years ago.

Ryan was my roommate during sophomore year at college. We shared an old, run-down apartment with two girls. I didn’t know Ryan before moving in that year. He was almost always smiling, and almost always playing bootleg tapes of the Grateful Dead. He had cases full of cassette tapes from live shows. I didn’t know anything about the Dead, but pretty soon I was hooked on the groove of those live shows. On nice days, we’d go out and throw a frisbee for hours. We cooked up quintessential college dinners, combining mac-n-cheese with whatever else we could find in the kitchen.

We wound up hanging out a lot that year. We talked about girls, and music, and life. We got to be really good friends. We went our separate ways after school – he went off to Colorado to work and play at the ski resorts. I moved half way around the world to Armenia on my own adventures. There are friends you sometimes lose touch with, but you know they are there if you ever need them, and you know when you meet again someday you’ll pick up exactly where you left off. Ryan was that kind of friend.

Now he was gone. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. The next day I searched and came across the short newspaper article.

Avalanche near Ophir, CO kills skier

April 7, 1999

1 backcountry skier caught, buried and killed

A 31-year-old Telluride man was buried and killed Wednesday afternoon near Ophir in SW Colorado.

Eight skiers in two groups were descending the Magnolia slide path in the Ophir valley. The victim was in a group of five, but decided to wait for the other three skiers.

Out of nowhere, a cold premonition popped into my head. I wondered if Ophir was due north from Chaco canyon. I checked. Ophir, CO is at -107.8 degrees longitude. I looked up Chaco’s coordinates: -107.9 degrees.

It was unsettling. I felt there were connections I didn’t understand.

I looked at my friends’ names. Richard Darrell Halvorsen and Ryan Douglas Hartnett. Both had been doing what they had a passion for. Both were with a group of friends. Both had waited for the second part of their group before tragedy struck. Friends had rushed to help them, performed CPR to no avail. Another uncomfortable idea entered my mind; I looked up the coordinates for Rick’s accident. It was due east of Chaco, on the same line of latitude.

Riding up Ophir pass in Colorado. September 2015.

Ryan had died over five years ago on April 7^th, 1999. Usually I would have no idea what I was doing on a day five years ago, but I knew exactly where I had been on that day. I was in Key West with the girl I would later marry (Rick’s sister in law). It was an important date in our relationship; a happy time.

Things were getting strange in my head. Everything seemed connected. Everything seemed to have a deeper meaning. I was taking notice of birds, especially hawks. Were they flying in my direction? Perpendicular to my path? Were they perched looking towards me or were their backs turned? And what did it mean anyway? I started to wonder if I was losing it. The only reassurance I had was that I was aware that I might be losing it.

And there was this mysterious canyon in the New Mexico desert. All the dots seemed to converge on Chaco. I felt drawn, in an uneasy way, to the place. Perhaps there was something there I needed to see or hear or learn.

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I started reading about Chaco. I bought a copy of the documentary so I could watch the whole thing. In short, Chaco Canyon contains the greatest ruins of the prehistoric people of North America. Nothing like Chaco existed in North America before or since. A thousand years ago, from AD 850-1150, the people built a dozen monumental great houses in this remote, unforgiving place. Some of the buildings stood 5 stories tall and were the largest buildings on the continent until the white man started building his cities at the end of the 19^th century. The workers quarried tons of sandstone from the mesa tops for the intricate masonry facades. They hauled more than 200,000 timbers from forests over 50-70 miles away without the use of pack animals.

Artist’s rendering of the great house Pueblo Bonito

Initially Archeologists believed that the massive buildings at Chaco housed a bustling population and served as a center for trade in the region. But further research showed that not many people lived for extended periods in these great buildings. The system of roads emanating from Chaco was thought to indicate a busy commercial system. But it didn’t make sense. The roads were planned and built with exacting linearity, scaling obstacles instead of going around them. The North road does not link to other communities or resources, and at places on its course there are multiple parallel segments right next to each other.

Ideas began to shift about the purpose of the buildings and roads at Chaco. They are seen now as serving to unify a system of thought, belief, and society; a representation of these people’s views about their world and the cosmos. Chaco is now seen more as a spiritual and ceremonial gathering place; a place where the people pilgrimaged to mark important occasions with ceremonies and offerings.

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Late in the year, I made plans to visit Chaco. I flew into Albuquerque, rented an SUV and looked for a cheap place to spend the night. I was in a sketchy part of town, and the motel I found was the kind where the proprietor studies you closely with narrow eyes from behind the thick office glass. In my room, I pulled the ugly curtains and slid the latches on the door. You could put quarters in the worn out bed if you fancied. I hoped the rental car would still be there in the morning.

From Albuquerque, you drive north about two hours. When you’re pretty sure you’re lost, you turn left on a nondescript dirt road and follow it another 11 miles into Chaco canyon.

Reaching the canyon, I stopped the car on the side of the road and stepped out. I heard the thud of the car door hit the canyon wall behind me and then bounce off the opposing wall. And then nothing. Silence. Living in the suburbs there is always noise. Even in the woods or fields in Kansas, there is always the sound of the wind, the insects, distant traffic. I stood still in the quiet. After several minutes a raven flew overhead. I could hear the wump, wump of its wings beating against the air. And then the quiet closed again. It would prove to be this way for the three days I spent at Chaco. It was ironic that I had come to hear what the place had to say; it was the quietest place I’ve ever been.

The campground was located against one of the canyon walls. There was a small cliff dwelling under the rock; people had camped here for centuries. On this night however, there was only one other person spending the night. I walked over to say hi. He was unhappy. Earlier that day while he was gone, the ravens had torn a bunch of holes in his tent. They were assholes, he said. I was glad that I had the SUV to sleep in.

Besides the young guy in the campground and the few people working in the visitor center, the entire canyon was empty. For three days, I hiked the trails and wandered the ruins in complete aloneness.

It was the middle of December, about a week before the sun stands still at winter solstice. There was a trace of snow in the shadows from a recent snowfall. At mid-day, the sun warmed the land, and if you were hiking, you could shed down to a t-shirt. But at night, the temperature quickly fell to around 20 degrees.

I spent the afternoon exploring the ruins of the great houses Pueblo Bonito, Chetro Ketl, Kin Kletso and Pueblo Alto. Pueblo Bonito is the largest of the great houses. At its peak, it contained nearly 800 rooms and stood four to five stories above the canyon. Its central wall is perfectly North-South, pointing to the sun at midday, while its prominent front wall is due East-West, dividing the seasons at equinox.

Behind Kin Kletso, a trail disappears into a narrow cleft in the canyon wall. Climbing this trail brought me eventually to the top of the mesa above Pueblo Bonito. I sat and looked over the massive ruins of the central complex. The trail led me to the ruins of Pueblo Alto and New Alto. The north road and many other Chacoan roads converge at this mesa-top. The roads are still visible today as unwavering straight lines carved into the landscape. Where obstacles were encountered, the builders went right over them, sometimes carving steps into the faces of sheer cliffs. Linearity was important.

Satellite image showing prehistoric roads emanating from Chaco (red) and modern roads (yellow)

In many Pueblo traditions, the people emerged in the north from the worlds below and traveled to the south in search of the sacred middle place. The joining of the cardinal and solstice directions with the nadir and the zenith frequently defines, in Pueblo ceremony and myth, that sacred middle place. It is a center around which the recurring solar and lunar cycles revolve. Chaco Canyon may have been such a center place and a place of mediation and transition between these cycles and between the worlds of the living and the dead (F. Eggan 1990 p.c.). (33)

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When I got back to my camp, I found the ravens had poked holes in the top of my 5 gallon water container. They stood watching me from a safe distance, probably plotting some other mischief.

As night fell, the shadows climbed the canyon walls and the warm colors faded to monochrome. The moon cast a pallid light over the canyon and on the old cliff dwelling. It made me shiver.  There was nothing to do but try to sleep. I crawled inside my sleeping bag in the car and listened to the silence outside. I fought to keep my imagination quiet.

Of course, I woke up in the middle of the night and had to pee. My breath had frozen on the windows, and I couldn’t see anything outside the car. I lay there for a long time in my mummy bag imagining what might be outside the door. In the end my bladder was louder than my imagination, and I jumped out of the car. It was much colder, and the stillness seemed even deeper. Nothing had moved outside, except the stars had spun and the moon hung in a different place. I tried not to look towards the eerie cliff dwelling. I got back in the car, locked the doors and waited in the quiet for the first hints of morning.

Cliff dwelling at Chaco campground

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As the sun rose, color and warmth returned to the canyon. The day’s exploring brought me to Casa Rinconada, one of the five great kivas found in Chaco. Great kivas are believed to have been special structures where ceremonial, social, or political gatherings were held. They are still used in Pueblo ceremonies today.

Time lapse photo of the great Kiva, Casa Rinconada

Casa Rinconada forms a perfect circle and has a precise north-south alignment. The more archeologists studied Chaco, the more they found careful alignment of buildings. First, and most obviously, some buildings were found to be aligned to the cardinal directions and to the cycle of the sun. These buildings are furthermore aligned with each other. But there were other buildings at Chaco that fell outside this pattern. Archeologists with the Solstice Project carefully surveyed 14 major Chacoan buildings. They found that 12 of the 14 buildings were aligned to the cycles of the sun or moon.

The moon has a long and complex cycle that few people are aware of. Reading about it makes my head hurt. Like the sun, the rising and setting moon shifts on the horizon. This cycle is repeated each month, but the minimum and maximum positions on the horizon shift over an 18.613 year period. These are called the minor and major lunar standstills. It would have taken generations of careful observation to track and understand this pattern, and few ancient peoples are thought to have had this knowledge. The Solstice Project found that 7 of the buildings at Chaco are aligned with these lunar events. To make things more interesting, they found the buildings with lunar alignments are also in alignment with each other.

Illustration showing the orientation of the great houses at Chaco

If you could visualize a grand aerial view of Chaco canyon, you’d see lines to the solar and lunar cycles that connect buildings, that bisect each other, that form a complex symmetry of design, covering miles of hard ground. A pattern that we may not understand, but a pattern that the people here spent 300 years carefully scribing on the earth.

There is a lot to consider about Chaco, but on this day I was content to hike along the sunny trails. I walked up on a small pack of mule deer that didn’t seem to mind my presence. The trail eventually brought me to another ruin with the interesting name, Tsin Kletzin.

The second night was even worse; I came back to my car from exploring the canyon and found the other camper was gone and I was the only one in the campground. My bladder betrayed me again and I had to pull a repeat performance of the first night.

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In the morning, at sunrise, I took a final cold hike to another great house, Wijiji. I walked quickly and quietly along the trail, which was still mostly in early morning shadow. There are petroglyphs and other markings at Wijiji, just like in the rest of the canyon, that coincide with the cycles of the sun.

I walked back towards my camp with the solitary Fajada butte in view. On this butte, scientists discovered a series of large stones, and behind them a spiral petroglyph. This place is now called the Sun Dagger. At solstice and equinox, the sun’s rays shine past the stones and cast “daggers” of light on the petroglyph, marking the sun’s journey. The moon’s rays cast light on a smaller spiral, marking the long and complex cycle of the moon. It’s an advanced astronomical viewing station, used over a thousand years ago by these people.

The sun’s rays shine on a spiral petroglyph at the Sun Dagger site

After the hike, I took a final glance around the campground and then unceremoniously left Chaco. I had felt compelled to visit, thinking that maybe I had something to learn there. I suppose this would make a better story if something dramatic had happened during my stay. But there was no epiphany as I walked among the ruins, no sudden revelation, no lifting of the pain of loss. Perhaps that is the way life is. All I know is that at that point in my journey, I needed to make the pilgrimage.

In my own Armenian culture, the death of a loved one is marked on the 7^th day, the 40^th day, and the one year anniversary. I was surprised that after the one year anniversary of Rick’s death, the pain I felt changed. It was still there, but it was a dull pain rather than a sharp jab. I still miss Rick and think of him all the time, Ryan too. I carry their memories with me wherever I go, like water in a too-full glass.

And what about the dots? What about all the interconnections, imagined or not, that had drawn me to Chaco? I still don’t know what to make of them. I know that in the months after my trip, the interrelation of events and places seemed to fade, and my mind eased in trying to tie occurrences together into patterns. I think that patterns probably exist all around us, and some people at some times, are more aware of them than others. But for me, the patterns started to recede again into the unseen. I wasn’t sad to let them go.

 

 The moon shines through a window at Chaco