Monday, May 12 (continued)
“No, Spike. We aren’t going to live here. We don’t have our house with us.”
We pass the A-liner (shown in previous post) and notice the owners also have a pop-up screen house set up in the shade of a cottonwood tree.
Hmm . . . pretty nice if you like to eat outside or to sit outside when camping in a buggy place. Looks like they’re using it to corral their stuff.
Not something we’ve ever needed . . .
I place the crew’s water dish on the ground. After the drink, I open up the PTV’s side door. “All aboard, passengers.”
We’re off to see the pictograph panel in Buckhorn Draw.
We leave the campground and continue on the same road. The draw (or “wash” as it is also called) is another five miles in a canyon.
It’s a habit. I see four or five areas where people have camped. All are unoccupied except for one with a Class C motor home.
We arrive at the pictograph panel. I park the Perfect Tow Vehicle next to two cars.
“I’ll be right back,” I promise a disappointed and loudly protesting Bridget. Spike lifts his head, sees the familiar drama, and resumes his after-lunch snooze.
Information plaques report the panel, considered sacred by many indigenous Americans, was badly damaged by a mutant subspecies of humans who carved initials on it and even shot at it (I paraphrase). Efforts to restore the paintings were not completely successful.
A man stands next to me and together we gaze at the panel. “Idiots,” he mutters, referring to the vandals, not the ancient painters. Amen to that, brother.
Another man intently adjusts his camera on a tripod. The lens looks like it could capture pictographs in a neighboring solar system.
I read a sign apologetically pointing out that the paintings don’t show up well in bright sun. . . which is, of course, what we have right now.
Nevertheless I do my best.
Apparently these folks did not struggle with weight gain.
The figures are almost as skinny as the snakes, which were their favorite creature to draw (and a lot easier to paint than birds, for example. Believe me, I KNOW.)
I can feel Bridget’s stare boring into the side of my head.
Okay, okay . . . I return to the PTV and we head for home, retracing our route out of the canyon and across the Swell.
“Well, that was a fun outing,” I say, unlocking the door. Bridget happily hops inside while Spike goes under the Best Little Trailer to see if his collection of bones is still there.
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