The Gods Are Small Things

Again we begin from Ponderosa campground; perhaps it is the cacoon-like warmth of the Ranger's Chevy Jalopasaurus Rex that ferries me to the trail head that is so inviting. I also have found -- 2 hikes past this one, all starting from Ponderosa -- that I enjoy the nonstop 1.5 mile downhill bomb to get to the bottom of the canyon immensely. If breakfast was questionable, then this bombastic march to the Upper Crossing reminds me in no uncertain terms that a side trip to the poopatorium is in order.

This time, up we go the west side of Frijoles canyon and along the Frijoles Rim trail, simply following the wiggles and second thoughts of yesterdays valley trail, but several hundred feet above. As usual, I have gotten a late start, what with the bacon, eggs, and subsequent ceremony, and by then time I crawl up out of the canyon, things are beginning to stickify a bit.

I have time to inspect the earth, as it is easier to look at than the sky; today's lesson shall be about small things -- even the godlike canyons we shall view as though huddled burrowing owls.

The prickly pears are attractive in their defense, and I remembered that not a one in the wide cousinship of the cactus is harmful to eat, and thus begins the first dalliance of the day. Two are eaten, one with far better results and far fewer thorns in the lip. I find that, of the two, the younger and plumper is the more palatable, and apply inductive reasoning to make a sweeping stereotype: what looks to be old and stringy tastes old and stringy. The young one, however, has a taste and texture quite reminiscent of eggplant, and I imagine that fried in butter and judiciously salted, it would be marvelous.

Onwards, carried by my wondrous 7-league boots. They are not the most modern conveyance, but they are speedy; the miles fly by without notice. What seems to be some sort of turd in my path (this topic also seems to be cropping up remarkably fast...) gives a hiss, a blat, and makes a dash for my toes. There it rests, silly little creature, confident in its camoflage at the feet of a colossus. It is a Greater Short-Horned Lizard, Phrynosoma hernandesi, puffed up to give a hair-raising impersonation of a half-dollar piece that wishes to swallow you whole. These opportunistic gluttons are known to gorge themselves on one single kind of prey -- for the world may be barren tomorrow -- and sure enough, within feet of the little monster is an ant metropolis, the lizard a would-be Godzilla. I like his grin immensely; this seems to be his out of practice meet-and-greet face. I moved him toward the unsuspecting ants as a token of my esteem.

I choose a different way to descend back into Frijoles canyon than usual, taking me by the Frijolito ruins. I am curious about what all these beans were doing in one place to begin with, and why the canyon bears the name. The is an excavated ruin up along the distant side of the canyon, with many of the same features that have been unearthed and trod into dust along the paved, self guided loop down below. As it is only 1.5 miles from the trail head, it is not nearly as pristine as the Yapashi ruins, a good 6 mile trek from the same trail head. But you are saved the whining babies, the smudged wrappers of the constantly-eating dough-children, and the tedious "stand there honey...ooh, that's peachy!" comments that so plague the lower, more obviously fantastic ruins. There is an air of solitary peace, and I have the sense that perhaps I shouldn't be taking pictures to begin with. But I remind myself that I am worshipping at this ancient temple, if in no other way than trying to feel the passage of time rush over my skin, and I am transformed by the transposition of the ancient everyday onto the modern wonder. Passers-by leave little piles of findings; shards of pottery, bits of bone, all housing fodder for yet more ants.

-Concludes your humble narrator