Email this article

On Horseback in Search of the Ancient Ones

Following Cowboy Trails in Ute Mountain Ute Tribal Park

by Andrew Gulliford

" I've become an atheist when it comes to our culture's worship of the ATV. "

Our plan was simple: gather family and friends, find the best local outfitter guide and ride into the backcountry of Ute Mountain Ute Tribal Park to visit 800-year-old cliff dwellings. In the 1890s, the Wetherill brothers had taken tourists in by horseback to visit remote ruins. We wanted to ride in their horses' hoofprints, to come into the country upright in the saddle, boots in the stirrups, eyes peeled for the dark shapes of tiny windows high under the ledges of sandstone cliffs.

We wanted to explore on the backs of roans, buckskins and bays; with tents, a camp cook, a few wranglers and a small buckboard wagon to haul in our packs, sleeping bags, and assorted gear. We wanted the thrill of seeing remote rooms hundreds of feet above the valley floor.

We'd tie up our horses and begin to climb.

We'd follow ancient travel routes down Mancos Canyon along the Mancos River. We arranged our Ute Mountain Ute Tribal Park permit, and Ute Mountain guides, no pavement, no assigned camp sites, no electricity, and no cell phone reception. We'd sleep among the sagebrush and have campfires. We'd count the stars in Orion's belt and drink cowboy coffee boiled up in Granite ware pots blackened by years of breakfast fires. We expected to see carefully constructed cliff dwellings deep set in south-facing alcoves; we did - and more.

We found prehistoric corn cobs, hundreds of broken pottery and sherds, and collapsed kiva roofs. We found historic, hand-carved 19th century signatures etched into walls. We found Ute rock art from the 1930s of cattle, horses and cowboys.

One day we even followed our intrepid Ute guide Marshall Deer straight down "Moki steps," hand-carved ancestral Puebloans toe holds. He disappeared over a cliff, without ropes. One of the braver of our party descended. Just when he shouted, "I can't do this," the guide placed his feet in near-invisible toe holds and he was safely down.

With trepidation, we followed.

We quietly entered Hoot Owl House. Amber afternoon light streamed through a rare grove of aspen. Marshall Deer said, "The Utes just leave these things alone. These were ceremonial people and we leave their homes alone. It's the pothunters and archaeologists who take everything."

In June 1874, photographer William Henry Jackson, journalist Ernest Ingersoll and guide John Moss were chasing preposterous rumors of ancient cities hidden in cliffs somewhere in Southwest Colorado. Stories tell that Jackson became irritable over not finding any cliff houses. They camped along the river, and toward sunset he complained again. One of the party looked up at the nearby cliff and said, "You mean a ruin like the one high on the cliff face?"

There in the last light of day shone Two-Story House.

Jackson was elated. At dawn they started the climb up to the site with his heavy camera and tripod. Jackson would photograph and publish the first images of a Colorado cliff dwelling, though he missed the larger sites found deeper in the side canyons now part of Mesa Verde National Park.

After publication of William Henry Jackson's photographs, knowledge of Mesa Verde and protection of the area for its archaeological value became a goal for the Colorado Federation of Women's Clubs concerned about collectors looting southwestern sites to carry off artifacts for European museums. Early archaeologists heralded the discovery of Mesa Verde as a major contribution to knowledge, but the Ute Mountain Utes like other Utes and the Navajo had been respectful stewards of the ruins and left them alone, not visiting them and certainly not digging in the floors of ancient houses.

In 1895, the Ute Mountain Utes, the smallest of the three Ute Indian bands from Colorado, received land in the far southwest corner of Colorado and six full townships in northwest New Mexico in tribal trust. Those lands are scarce in water, precious minerals, and fields of tillable soil, but the Ute Mountain Ute reservation is rich with pristine 10th-12th century ruins. (Today the Ute Mountain Utes respectfully refer to the canyon's former inhabitants as the Ancient Pueblo People, and the land those old ones lived on is carefully protected by the tribe.)

To preserve the spectacular Cliff Palace, Spruce Tree House and Balcony House ruins, President Theodore Roosevelt signed into law Mesa Verde National Park in 1906 - but with only vague boundaries. In 1911, the United States Congress carved 14,520 acres for Mesa Verde National Park out of Ute Mountain Ute land. Since then, many have worked to preserve ancestral Puebloan sites beyond the boundaries of Mesa Verde, above all the Ute Mountain Ute Tribe.

The cliff dwellings on Ute land, though smaller than Mesa Verde, have deep appeal because tourists can see the sites on a personal level without paved parking lots, timed tours led by rangers, and without the exhaust from hordes of RVs and tour buses.

Most of Native America's ancient sites are managed by state and federal agencies - National Park Service, the Bureau of Land Management, U.S. Forest Service - but these ruins are Indian-managed and open to only small, guided tours.

When the Ute Mountain Utes gave up acreage for Mesa Verde National Park, they received 20,160 acres including additional ancient cliff dwellings. At many national parks visitors learn about ancient Indians but never encounter contemporary Native Americans.

Not so at Ute Mountain Tribal Park.

Ute Mountain Utes come from the Weminuche band. Their last traditional chief, Jack House, lived in the old way spending summers on the mesa and winters in Mancos Canyon. Recognized as the hereditary chief of the tribe, Chief Jack House wielded firm political power until his death in 1971.

In 1967 - because he knew Mancos Canyon to be sacred ground where spirits dwell - Chief Jack House began plans to set aside 125,000 acres in Mancos Canyon as Ute Mountain Park.

Jean Akens writes, "It was his desire to preserve the ruins for the future, and to share them with others . . . his was an idea opposed by many in the tribe, especially those of his own generation. There still remained a strong belief that no good could come from disturbing the spirits of the Ancient Ones. But the chief was not to bedissuaded." (Chief House's commitment to preservation led to bitter antagonism in the Weminuche who after his death burned his hogan, chiseled and defaced his image painted on rock, and tried to ignore his edict to leave the canyon alone.)

From 1971 to 1975 archaeological crews cleaned and stabilized ruins, Archaeologists recorded sites, preserving materials, and analyzing information.

No tribal member permanently lives in Mancos Canyon, though Utes hunt, collect wood, guide, and maintain the vast park. Now more than 30 years later, the wisdom of Chief Jack House is apparent. Tourism is small scale and very low impact with vigorous hiking and climbing including the ascent of kiva ladders 60-feet high. The 12 to 18 people are who spend an entire day with an authorized Ute guide are privileged. They learn to identify Ute and Ancestral Puebloan rock art, spot ancient turkey pens above the roofs of cliff houses; treasure the solitude, wind soughing through the tops of aging ponderosas, and eagles and red-tailed hawks soaring upwards on thermals. Thunderclouds rise high against a deepening sky. Sheer sandstone cliffs give way to hidden villages shaded by pines and fir that grow tall at the heads of canyons.

Because the cliff dwellings are approached on foot, guests feel they are among the first non-natives to see the ruins. They stoop to enter ancient Ancient Puebloans T-shaped doorways and touch rocks and boulders etched with long grooves where pueblo people straightened their arrow shafts.

Visitors marvel at small rooms where smoke from old fires blackened ceilings. This is tribal tourism at its best - close up, quiet, one with the earth and sky.

Along every trail are scattered pottery sherds.

In the middle of the park a huge six-story kiva lies collapsed and surrounded by sherds of all sizes and descriptions. At Lion House, the largest village on the Main Ruins Tour, lie the remains of a sunken D-shaped kiva.

Ancient Puebloans finger prints are visible in dried mortar between hand-dressed stones. Door lintels made of wood tied together with yucca leaf fiber still have the original Ancestral Puebloan knot. Local corrugated pottery ware includes a canteen with a dog effigy figure attached.

(No visitors can take any artifacts, but early archaeologists did. Earl Morris of the University of Colorado took off the roofs of houses to photograph their interiors. He removed the human remains of an ancestral Puebloan woman who had lain undisturbed for centuries at a site Morris named She House at the far eastern side of the park. Now thanks to help from a Hopi elder, the ancient one has been reburied with her belongings.)

Today, Ute guides lead all day tours into an absolutely unspoiled canyon. Visitors walk single file beside remote clusters of stone rooms tucked deep into canyon alcoves, and wonder at the towers of a shaman's home. Eagle's Nest ruin towers above Mancos Canyon in full southern exposure, with a white ochre square painted on the exterior indicating power and prestige. From the top of Eagle's Nest, Mancos Canyon opens to the east and west. A millennia ago anyone on foot could easily have been detected.

Our trip started on a Thursday morning with clear skies, fresh horses, dry clothes, and endless enthusiasm. We met at Weber Canyon Ranch and rode 12 miles into base camp. We had good food, good friends, superb Ute Mountain guides with excellent, accurate commentary by writer, historian, naturalist, inscription expert, and raconteur Fred Blackburn. We expected a good time on our educational expedition, and we earned one.

What we didn't expect was driving rain, rising creeks and flash floods. We should have known the weather would get bad when on the first night a gust of wind completely toppled the cook tent. A big storm was coming. And, it arrived.

We had toured Two Story House, lunched on Moccasin Mesa, carefully crept down Moki steps to the deep quiet of Hoot Owl House, and on the third day explored Hemenway House where Fred Blackburn identified inscriptions and dates from Fort Lewis soldiers who had scaled the cliffs in the 1880s.

A few of us even climbed above Hemenway House by being pulled and pushed up a slim 25-foot rock chimney. On one of the narrowest ledges I've ever walked, the sky opened, the canyon fell below, and in between short breaths I knew I was on top of the world standing where few people had been in the last thousand years. Carefully, I looked over the edge and with binoculars found our horses tied in the distance.

To the north was the boundary of Mesa Verde National Park. Far from Mesa Verde's paved tour stops and away from the Tribal Park's graveled road, our little group was in one of the most remote and inaccessible places in the Four Corners. I took a deeper breath, exulting in our isolation.

When it was time to go, I slipped and began to free fall down the rock chimney I had climbed. Instantly, another Ute guide, Roger Wing, reached out and caught me in the climber's clasp, forearm to forearm. I left some blood on the rocks, but that was a small price to pay for such a magnificent view. On that ledge, time had stopped.

We searched out other small ruins. There were no trails. We scrambled through oak brush, under and around juniper trees, slid off smooth rocks, and finally approached three unnamed ruins all in alcoves.

All made by the Ancient Ones. All different. Some with stacked stone. Some with dressed stones with careful chinking and mortar. One two-room ruin even had vertical grooves carved into the cliff face to steady an ancient ladder, but the most interesting ruin must have been a shaman's home. It contained a miniature altar and a smooth, rounded fire pit, but there was no ceiling soot.

Fascinated, we spoke in soft tones, studying the ancient workmanship, lost in our own thoughts, aware of our own mortality, yet keenly, vividly alive as we turned and twisted and climbed to explore what we could.

The sky darkened. Rain was coming and we had to get out of the cliff dwellings and quickly down to our horses. We scrambled and slid on decades of dry ponderosa pine needles, laughing now, exhilarated, hungry for dinner and the comfort of camp chairs. We saw the curtain of rain coming up Mancos Canyon.

Luckily, it held off until we were almost in our saddles. The sweet scent of wet sage permeated the air. Tired, bruised, dusty, and now wet we had wanted an adventure and we had had one. Everyone slept well that night. The rain did not stop.

Leaving Mancos Canyon on the expedition's fourth day proved to be a true 19th century-Western experience when the wagon slid and tipped over on a dangerous corner of the old access road. In pouring rain we unhitched the team of Belgian horses.

Everything we had with us was tied into the wagon, now on its side. Swollen creek waters continued to rise. One of our party who had been on the wagon seat fell hard and now had a painful hip. The skies poured.

Thunder boomed. The horses skittered sideways across wet rocks and soft caliche soil. We weren't sure we could lift the wagon much less get across the next creek.

As I slogged around in the brown mud trying to untie ropes which secured the wagon's load, I realized the creek was rising an inch every five minutes. Soon the bottoms of my boots were under water. Our cowboy outing had taken an unexpected twist. What had been a lark was now all too serious.

On that September Sunday, soaked and cold despite our rain gear, our historic re-enactment had become an authentic adventure. Our ride out of the tribal park raced the rain. Water ran off the brims of our hats and down our backs. Could we get the wagon upright and moving? How badly hurt was our companion? Could we make it across the raging Mancos River before it rose even higher? Were we at risk of getting hypothermia?

Our outfitter and horseback hero Anne Rapp, with a lean cowgirl figure and silver hair in twin braids, had found an orange flicker feather and placed it in her hatband. Hopi Indians believe finding flicker feathers along a trail is a sign of good luck. With the wagon overturned, creek waters rising, and nine cold, wet, unseasoned riders on horseback, Rapp knew we'd need all the luck we could get.

Working as a team we righted the wagon, got back on our horses, lowered our hat brims and trotted towards the swollen Mancos River. Rapp knew we were as wet as drowned ducks. Out of her saddle bag she produced two pine knots rich with resin. Under old pi�on trees wranglers found dry wood and soon we had a warm fire to ward off hypothermia. We passed around a bottle of rum and finished off a carrot cake. Back in the saddle, we rode two abreast dreading what we'd find where Weber Canyon met the Mancos River.

Ever the consummate guide, Rapp slowly, carefully, walked her horse across first. From her saddle, she warily studied the currents, wave trains, and a deceptively dangerous sandbar. Then she slowly rode back, rushing water breaking against her stirrups. Without saying a word, just by her actions, her coolness and her confidence, we knew we could do it. The wagon went next. We held our breath. As it moved into the fast flowing water it stayed steady and as Willie Richardson, the wagon master, slapped the reins and the two big Belgians pulled the wagon up the muddy bank on the other side, we let out a cowboy yell. Then one at a time we crossed.

That's been a few months ago. It took days to dry everything and clean my clothes and gear. I've re-oiled my boots, hung my cowboy hat on my deer antler hat rack and put away my camping supplies.

Turns out that was a record rainfall. In canyon country averaging 7 inches of precipitation a year, we had 1.73 inches of rain in 24 hours. That's why the creeks flooded and the wagon slid and tipped. We were lucky to get out.

But now I don't dwell on the rain. Instead, I think of those narrow ledges, those stacked stone walls and intact mealing bins where Puebloan girls once knelt to grind coarse, medium, and fine corn flour. I think of the deep night sky, stars swirling around the North Star and the vast, brilliant constellations. We saw the same stars the Ancient Ones saw.

It's winter now. At night they would be tucked into their small rooms, wrapped in turkey feather blankets, families huddled together feeding precious sticks of wood into a small hearth, waiting to walk out on those thin sandstone shelves and greet the morning sun. I think of the cold and I know the people are sleeping.

In the darkness. In the cliffs.

Thanks to the careful stewardship of the Ute Mountain Utes and the foresight of Chief Jack House, the ancients of Mancos Canyon will always be remembered and thought of with respect. Standing on the narrow ledge at Eagle's Nest, gazing into those dusty rooms, our modern preoccupation with time has no apparent purpose. In Mancos Canyon, centuries have passed and will pass again with no disturbance of the landscape. The view the ancients beheld remains complete and unaltered, and a hand on aged wooden beams touches not only that which the ancestral Puebloans touched, but time itself.