A few months ago on a scenic drive, we passed an intriguing closed road to Horseshoe Reservoir. A fire had burned through and we were curious about what a burned desert looked like. Saturday we finally got our act together enough to load up the bikes and head out there. The GPS said it was 10 miles to the lake; twenty miles round trip was a challenge, considering our 2:30 pm start time and complications related to my recent pants size impairment (e.g., frequent wheezing on difficult terrain). But, if the road was paved and all low rolling hills, we could manage it. We figured it was a chance for a nice ride on a car-free road, even if we didn’t make it all the way. As it turned out, it didn’t start with rolling hills but a steep two-mile climb to the top of a ridge. Dr. G has that pioneer constitution that allows him to summon sufficient strength and energy for adventures, no matter how much sitting around precedes them. I was a little wobblier and a lot wheezier, but we made it. Then the road turned to dirt. Sand, ruts, gravel, and dirt to be exact, and all downhill.

Facing that downhill grade caused me to send up a little prayer of thanks once again for my Peace Corps bike training, humiliating though it was at the time (imagine a town’s worth of hollering boys following a consipicuous 30-person bike parade every Friday). We learned to bike through sand and water and over ruts and boulders, and I did all of it in ankle-length dresses. Now I can face rough terrain with a little adrenaline and almost zero fear, though real mountain bikers would sneer at my speed. We rattled downhill for a few miles and stopped to shake out our sore wrists. “You go on!” I said nobly. “If I go any further, I have serious doubts about my ability to get back up.” Dr. G was having none of that. We were stopped next to a trail, so we ditched the reservoir plan and scrambled to the top of the ridge instead. Right where the trail petered out, a sign appeared, declaring the area an archeological site and forbidding us to dig up or remove anything.

We scoured the hillside and found nothing human. Sad, I thought, that our observation skills were so ill-tuned to archeology. We admired the full moon rising above a peak in the late afternoon and decided to walk along the ridge awhile, toward a rocky point. The point was much rockier than any of the surrounding territory. “Hey,” I said, “Look at this rock shelf along the path. It’s perfectly straight. I detect human activity!” Dr. G raised his eyes to the rocky point just ahead of us. “Those are walls!” he said. We had stumbled upon a collection of ancient fortified stone buildings, perhaps 20 or 30 spread across the ridge. Many of the walls had caved in, forming jumbles of river rock, but many others were still standing strong. I stepped down into what appeared to have been a cooking area, judging by the black smoke stains on the rock. The ground was littered with potsherds and sharp flakes of black shiny rock similar to obsidian (though the rockhound Dr. G insists that it was not actually obsidian).

Everything we clambered over and touched was at least 500 years old, since the last native inhabitants had left in the late 1400′s. Later internet research uncovered a description of a similar hilltop fortress in the area that was around 900 years old. The shards of lovely red and buff pottery felt just like my own occasionally broken ceramics, and I felt a connection with the ancient women who had made and used them. “Who are you people? What were you doing up here?” I kept yelling. It was a vertiginous 500-foot drop to the dry creekbed below. They had hauled both rocks and water up to this windy point and settled.

The shadows were already growing long. Just one more structure, we kept telling each other. I just want to check out the one on that point. Finally the sun dipped behind a ridge and we knew we had to book it. We scurried back down the hill and I put my bike in the lowest gear and pedaled until my thighs started to burn, then I got off and walked it until my quads started to burn, and so on for the whole uphill stretch. Dr. G taught me how to do switchbacks while riding, and that eased some of the pain. When rubber finally touched the the ridge top, it was pretty much dark. A few gulps of water, a few moments absorbing the deep desert quiet beneath a rusty sky, and we went for it. Dr. G was soon out of sight, cruising around the turns, a brake-free biker if there ever was one. I imagined the heat streaming off my knuckles and ears in long orange streaks until they petered out, leaving my extremities totally numb. I rounded a bend and there was the car, lights on, doors open. The adventure was over. There are some days when everything that passes my senses feels like a gift, and this was one of them. So, as always, thank you to the good gift giver.