The Revelations of Petroglyph Canyon

In the Nevada desert, the day hikes are a world apart from our usual treks though the redwood forests of Northern California, but while my wife and I are virus-hibernating near Las Vegas, I decided to show her what the environs had to offer.

Winter is a good time to hike here. You can traverse rocky trails that would fry your skin lizard-skin tough in the high heat of summer. And don’t kid yourself, there’s lots to see. This high-desert landscape is not lifeless Mars. 

The other day I suggested we try a hike into Petroglyph Canyon, which features artistic rock renderings from the early peoples who inhabited this area more than 5,000 years ago. (And, no, there were not any sketches of prehistoric slot machines.)

Where are you going to see petroglyphs in the Bay Area, unless you squint your eyes at the drug graffiti scrawled in the dark alleys of the Tenderloin District?

Perhaps best of all, the trail head on our chosen desert romp was less than three miles from my cave, I mean, house.

So we set off late one Saturday afternoon to explore the area’s ancient past.

Along the way, we were reminded of a few things about each other.

Namely, my failings as a life-long mate and protector.

We set off from the parking lot in the southernmost reaches of the Las Vegas Valley along a trail that took a few sweeping arcs to allow you to stretch your legs. 

All around were blackened rocks left behind from the eruption of an ancient volcano that blew its top here some 15 million years ago.

A half-mile in, I saw three college-aged women on the return leg who had decided to go off-trail and take a straight line back to their car. 

Maybe they were tired and the hike was more strenuous than advertised, but I was somehow irked at their cavalier attitude. Trails are marked for a bloody reason.

But I said nothing. My wife accuses me of “getting all Berkeley” (read blowhard) on rule breakers, which she insists is hypocritical since I am the biggest rule breaker of them all.

So I swallowed my indignation and was already ahead of the game.

But things would soon get worse.

A mile or so later, the trail looped down a hillside into a canyon. Suddenly, after having views of the distant Las Vegas Strip, we were barreling into a high-walled ravine that swirled like the path of an old riverbed, which it was.

Each turn brought higher walls. We stopped to take photographs. Nearly an hour into our hike, we encountered an outgoing couple and I asked how much further we had to go before we saw any rock paintings.

The woman pointed and assured us that it wasn’t much farther.

“You’ll know when you get to the slippery rock wall,” she said. “It’s tough going up, but even tougher coming down.”

We continued merrily on our way until a few dozen turns later we saw it: the bones of an ancient waterfall, dry now for eons. A woman stood by the trail with her daughter.

“I’m not going anywhere near that thing,” she said, pointing to the clefts, “not with my seven knee surgeries. My husband is up there, though.”

There were several climbs, each more challenging thing the one before it. At the last, we waited for a husband and wife team coming down.

He went first, sliding the last few feet. Then he turned and extended a hand.

“C’mon honey,” he said. “This way.”

We picked our way up, my wife staying as far away from me as she could.

At the top, we entered another world.

The figures were everywhere — etched, chipped and pecked into the dark patina of the canyon’s volcanic rock — abstract swirls, geometric patterns, whimsical figures and realistic representations, some 25-feet up the sheer canyon wall.

A rendering of a Bighorn sheep stood guard at the canyon entrance. Some images appeared in dense clusters, while others stood alone. 

They all told stories, yet contained mysteries.

Rangers say the problem is that there is no Rosetta Stone here to help researchers understand the petroglyphs in a way that’s comparable to the hieroglyphics.

Were these images the record of some hunt, religious ceremony or domestic rite?

We wandered the canyon for an hour until the sunlight dimmed. 

It got colder. It was time to go back.

But first we had to negotiate those slippery rock cliffs.

We followed a young couple who easily slid down the rock face like one of the Bighorn sheep etched on the walls behind us.

I followed, sliding the last bit on my butt, dropping about five feet to the ground.

Then I turned to extend my hand to my wife.

She perched there on her haunches, frozen.

The younger couple had stopped to watch.

I gently encouraged her.

She unloosed a shriek of pure terror.

The other couple hurried away, embarrassed for us.

For my wife, this last move down the rock wall was a leap of faith, even with me there holding her hand. She had to make that proverbial jump into the pool, become momentarily suspended in air, hoping to land right.

And she didn’t trust me as her backstop.

Not one bit.

The stories (she might call it a nightmares) go back years.

Once, while vacationing in the Florida Keys, we pulled over for a roadside swim that required a paddle across a narrow green channel to reach a small island.

She didn’t want to go. She wan't a good swimmer. I insisted.

We’d only just met. My wife didn’t know me that well yet.

“You can hold on to me,” I said.

We doggy-paddled across. My wife, fearful of any depth, stayed close.

Suddenly, she panicked and glommed onto me like a barnacle on a ship.

For a moment, I thought we were both going to go down. I had to push her away to free my arms.

I mean, there was no need for both of us to drown. Somebody had to return that rental car.

We got across, with my wife kicking on her back, but the event left her with a psychic scar: the moment she most feared for her safety, I was pushing her away, not pulling her close.

Sigh.

A few years later, we were at a secluded Maui beach and I wanted to swim past the break to float the swells together on an inner tube. 

She didn’t want to go. 

I pulled her to the water’s edge. All we had to do, I insisted, was get past the break and we’d be fine. As we argued, our backs to the water, a rogue wave crashed overhead, clunking our heads together like two coconuts.

We were both left with large red bulges on our foreheads that lasted a few hours.

She insists they were there for weeks.

My wife finally made the jump and we were winding our way out of Petroglyph Canyon.

At one point, the sun dipped behind the wall and I took off my sunglasses.

My wife launched into a frenzied search of her body and backpack for her own pair.

She’d tucked them into her shirt when she slid down the last rock wall.

They must have fallen out.

It was now getting dark. I wanted to say that we had to keep going, that we would buy her a new pair. I mean, who knew where those glasses could be?

But I knew enough to keep my mouth shut.

My wife wanted those specs. She’d only bought them a few weeks before. They were prescription Gucci glasses that cost her hundreds of dollars.

We turned and headed back.

I tried to say encouraging things.

“We’ll find them,” I insisted.

At one point, my wife extended her hand.

“Let’s say a prayer,” she said.

A few years ago, while I was working in Australia, my wife found God, started attending a local non-denominational church.

Now, we pray when the going gets tough. She feels closer to me then.

We finished our prayer the moment a group of four hikers rounded a curve.

“Did you guys happen to find any sunglasses?” I asked.

One woman thrust her hand into her pocket.

“Oh my Gosh!” She said. “We did.”

They had discovered them back at the wall. The woman had put them on and realized they were prescription. And Gucci.

She handed them over to my wife, who was near tears with joy.

We had no money on hand to offer a reward and the woman didn’t want any.

The group went on ahead and I hugged my wife.

After my failings back at the wall, I hoped that’s I’d somehow redeemed myself, showing that I was her protector after all.

My wife began to speak. I waited.

“Thank you God,” she said, “for returning those glasses.”

“Amen,” I said.

I wanted to mention my own small part in the happy outcome.

But I kept my mouth shut.