Uncovering the Vast Mystery of Chaco Canyon

The howl of a coyote rode on the wind through Chaco Canyon as I clung to a stone boulder above the prehistoric village of Kin Kletso.

The coyote was not in sight, there in northwest New Mexico, but neither was anyone else. My zeal was fading with the sun.

I had been searching for a trail to the top of the cliff so I could get an overview of Pueblo Bonito, a 1,000-year-old maze of interlocking rooms where I had been happily lost. It was the largest of a dozen towns that thrived in this harsh canyon around AD 1000.

The Chaco culture flourished about the time of the Maya at Chichen Itza on Mexico’s Yucatan Peninsula. It predated the Incan wonders at Machu Picchu.

Pueblo Bonito stands as a mighty crescent of sandstone masonry that may have been four stories tall. I walked the south baseline, which stretches for 500 feet.

At its center are vast plazas and round, subterranean chambers called kivas. Many of the doorways are T-shaped and aligned like keyholes.

Chaco is riddled with mystery, from its honeycomb of ruins to its dearth of graves. Inordinate amounts of broken pottery were uncovered for a population estimated at between 5,000 and 10,000. Then there is the richness of the turquoise finds--the inlaid mugs, the birds and beads.

Archeologists believe that Chaco was not an ordinary Anasazi community, but a ceremonial place.

One clue is the discovery of 400 miles of ruler-straight roads about 35 feet wide that converge on Chaco. These roads were built by people who had neither wheeled carts nor draft animals. Perhaps the network was a route of pilgrimage? Perhaps the visits were seasonal?

Although Chaco is only 75 miles from Farmington, N.M., and about 100 from Gallup, the approach is far from easy. And that sets Chaco apart.

We drove north from the Indian trading post of Thoreau, crossing the Continental Divide at Satan Pass and turning on a road marked 57. The only landmarks were yellow signs warning “Bump” and “Dip.”

Then an arrow: “Chaco Canyon. No gas or food for 21 miles.”

Also no pavement. The rutted road is single-track. A photographer in Albuquerque had told me that the road was passable without four-wheel-drive, except when it rains and the dirt turns to mud. Even four-wheel-drive vehicles get mired.

But now late snows were packed between the ridges. The washboard surface was like a toboggan ride, especially from the crests of blind hillocks.

We rattled over empty miles before seeing another vehicle. The first was pulling a cartload of cows. We slowed to let it pass. The second was a pickup truck hitched to a van with a brown pony inside. He had a white star on his forehead.

Clouds of blackbirds rose from frosty sagebrush, startled by our car. At noon a ghostly moon appeared. A pink cloud trailed from a mesa.

We turned on the car radio and recognized these names: Dolly Parton, Noriega, Washington and Ethics Committee. The rest seemed to be in Chinese.

It was the Navajo station, 660 on the dial, broadcast from Window Rock.

I had heard that the Navajo language was used as a code in World War II. I could understand why. After national headlines--and a United Way commercial urging those on the reservation to remember the less fortunate--the station returned to Navajo chants and drums.

A red monolith loomed. It was Fajada Butte, rising like a massive cairn. Suddenly there was the calm of asphalt. We were at the entrance to Chaco Culture National Historical Park. A sign warned that all ruins and trails close at dark.

At a small museum we met a ranger, Kevin Wentworth. He had time to talk. Only five cars had pulled in that day. Come the summer, when the temperature is about 100, there will be 60 cars a day and the campground will be filled.

Still, there is room to fan out among the ruins and cottonwoods of Chaco Wash. And there is pride among modern pilgrims; the most frequent comment in the guest book is: “Don’t pave the road.”

The ranger said that his favorite hike is to the clifftop above Kin Kletso. He did not mention its camouflage.

I walked behind those ruins and stared up at the sandstone wall. Finally I saw four pancake rocks piled into a primitive cairn. I clambered to them, but found no trail. Then I saw another teetering heap and climbed in that direction.

That was when I heard the coyote howl. As I leaned back to ponder my move, I saw a split in the cliff and a hint of a passage and stairs.

I shouted to my companion, who was exploring below. We slipped through to the rim. From above, Pueblo Bonito looked like the surface of the moon, all craters and ridges. Shadows slashed at the canyon.

But we could not linger. Unlike a thousand years ago, there was no place to stay the night: no flickering fires, no chattering children, no drums or barking dogs.

Not even a wide, straight road to carry us back to the neon lodges by the interstate.